For Logan. I’ve only just met you
and already I love you.
She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the fire-light and the music,
were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can
never be a long time ago.
LAURA INGALLS WILDER, Little House in the Big Woods
Time is the longest distance between two places.
—TENNESSEE WILLIAMS, The Glass Menagerie
Dear Peter,
I miss you. It’s only been five days but I
miss you like it’s been five years.
Maybe because I don’t know if this is
just it, if you and I will ever talk again. I
mean I’m sure we’ll say hi in chem
class, or in the hallways, but will it ever
be like it was? That’s what makes me
sad. I felt like I could say anything to
you. I think you felt the same way. I
hope you did.
So I’m just going to say anything to you
right now, while I’m still feeling brave.
What happened between us in the hot
tub scared me. I know it was just a day
in the life of Peter for you, but for me it
meant a lot more, and that’s what scared
me. Not just what people were saying
about it, and me, but that it happened at
all. How easy it was, how much I liked
it. I got scared and I took it out on you
and for that I’m truly sorry.
And at the recital party, I’m sorry I
didn’t defend you to Josh. I should have.
I know I owed you that much. I owed
you that much and more. I still can’t
believe you came, and that you brought
those fruitcake cookies. You looked cute
in your sweater, by the way. I’m not
saying that to butter you up. I mean it.
Sometimes I like you so much I can’t
stand it. It fills up inside me, all the way
to the brim, and I feel like I could
overflow. I like you so much I don’t
know what to do with it. My heart beats
so fast when I know I’m going to see
you again. And then, when you look at
me the way you do, I feel like the
luckiest girl in the world.
Those things Josh said about you, they
weren’t true. You haven’t brought me
down. Just the opposite. You’ve brought
me out. You gave me my first love story,
Peter. Please just don’t let it be over yet.
Love,
Lara Jean
1
KITTY’S BEEN A LITTLE COMPLAINER all morning, and I
suspect both Margot and Daddy are suffering from New Years
Eve hangovers. And me? I’ve got hearts in my eyes and a
letter that’s burning a hole in my coat pocket.
As we’re putting on our shoes, Kitty’s still trying to weasel
her way out of wearing a hanbok to Aunt Carrie and Uncle
Victors. “Look at the sleeves! They’re three-quarter length on
me!”
Unconvincingly Daddy says, “They’re supposed to be that
way.”
Kitty points to me and Margot. “Then why do theirs fit?”
she demands. Our grandma bought the hanboks for us the last
time she was in Korea. Margot’s hanbok has a yellow jacket
and apple-green skirt. Mine is hot pink with an ivory-white
jacket and a long hot-pink bow with flowers embroidered
down the front. The skirt is voluminous, full like a bell, and it
falls all the way to the floor. Unlike Kitty’s, which hits right at
her ankles.
“It’s not our fault you grow like a weed,” I say, fussing with
my bow. The bow is the hardest thing to get right. I had to
watch a YouTube video multiple times to figure it out, and it
still looks lopsided and sad.
“My skirt’s too short too,” she grumps, lifting the bottom.
The real truth is, Kitty hates wearing a hanbok because you
have to walk delicately in it and hold the skirt closed with one
hand or the whole thing comes open.
“All of the other cousins will be wearing them, and it will
make Grandma happy,” Daddy says, rubbing his temples.
“Case closed.”
In the car Kitty keeps saying “I hate New Years Day,” and
it puts everyone but me in a sour mood. Margot is already in a
semi-sour mood because she had to wake up at the crack of
dawn to get home from her friend’s cabin in time. There’s also
the matter of that maybe hangover. Nothing could sour my
mood, though, because I’m not even in this car. I’m
somewhere else entirely, thinking about my letter to Peter,
wondering if it was heartfelt enough, and how and when I’m
going to give it to him, and what he’ll say, and what it will
mean. Should I drop it in his mailbox? Leave it in his locker?
When I see him again, will he smile at me, make a joke of it to
lighten the mood? Or will he pretend he never saw it, to spare
us both? I think that would be worse. I have to keep reminding
myself that, despite everything, Peter is kind and he is
easygoing and he won’t be cruel no matter what. Of that much
I can be sure.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” Kitty asks me.
I barely hear her.
“Hello?”
I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep, and all I see is
Peters face. I don’t know what I want from him exactly, what
I’m ready for—if it’s boyfriend-girlfriend heavy-duty serious
love, or if it’s what we had before, just fun and some here-and-
there kisses, or if it’s something in between, but I do know I
can’t get his Handsome Boy face out of my mind. The way he
smirks when he says my name, how when he’s near me I
forget to breathe sometimes.
Of course, when we get to Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victors,
none of the other cousins are wearing hanboks, and Kitty
practically turns purple with the effort of not yelling at Daddy.
Margot and I give him some side-eye too. It’s not particularly
comfortable to sit around in a hanbok all day. But then
Grandma gives me an approving smile, which makes up for it.
As we take off our shoes and coats at the front door, I
whisper to Kitty, “Maybe the adults will give us more money
for dressing up.”
“You girls look so cute,” Aunt Carrie said as she hugs us.
“Haven refused to wear hers!”
Haven rolls her eyes at her mom. “I love your haircut,” she
says to Margot. Haven and I are only a few months apart, but
she thinks she’s so much older than me. She’s always trying to
get in with Margot.
We get the bowing out of the way first. In Korean culture,
you bow to your elders on New Years Day and wish them
luck in the new year, and in return they give you money. The
order goes oldest to youngest, so as the oldest adult, Grandma
sits down on the couch first, and Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor
bow first, then Daddy, all the way down the line to Kitty, who
is youngest. When it’s Daddy’s turn to sit on the couch and
receive his bows, there’s an empty couch cushion next to him
as there has been every New Years Day since Mommy died. It
gives me an achy feeling in my chest to see him sitting there
alone, smiling gamely, handing out ten-dollar bills. Grandma
catches my eye pointedly and I know she’s thinking the same
thing. When it’s my turn to bow, I kneel, hands folded in front
of my forehead, and I vow that I will not see Daddy alone on
that couch again next year.
We get ten dollars from Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor, ten
from Daddy, ten from Aunt Min and Uncle Sam, who aren’t
our real aunt and uncle but second cousins (or is it cousins
once removed? They’re Mommy’s cousins, anyway), and
twenty from Grandma! We didn’t get more for wearing
hanboks, but all in all a good take. Last year the aunts and
uncles were only doing five apiece.
Next we do rice cake soup for good luck. Aunt Carrie also
made black-eyed pea cakes and insists we try at least one,
though no one wants to. The twins, Harry and Leon—our third
cousins? Cousins twice removed?—refuse to eat the soup or
the black-eyed pea cakes and are eating chicken nuggets in the
TV room. There isn’t enough room at the dining table, so Kitty
and I eat on stools at the kitchen island. We can hear everyone
laughing from over here.
As I begin to eat my soup, I make a wish. Please, please let
things work out with me and Peter.
“Why do I get a smaller bowl of soup than everyone else?”
Kitty whispers to me.
“Because you’re the littlest.”
“Why don’t we get our own bowl of kimchi?”
“Because Aunt Carrie thinks we don’t like it because we’re
not full Korean.”
“Go ask for some,” Kitty whispers.
So I do, but mainly because I want some too.
While the adults drink coffee, Margot, Haven, and I go up to
Haven’s room and Kitty tags along. Usually she plays with the
twins, but this time she picks up Aunt Carrie’s Yorkie, Smitty,
and follows us upstairs like one of the girls.
Haven has indie rock band posters on her walls; most I’ve
never heard of. She’s always rotating them out. There’s a new
one, a letterpressed Belle and Sebastian. It looks like denim.
“This is cool,” I say.
“I was just about to switch that one out,” Haven says. “You
can have it if you want.”
“That’s all right,” I tell her. I know she’s only offering it to
feel above me, as is her way.
“I’ll take it,” Kitty says, and Haven’s face pulls into a
frown for a second, but Kitty’s already peeling it off the wall.
“Thanks, Haven.”
Margot and I look at each other and try not to smile.
Haven’s never had much patience for Kitty, and the feeling is
infinitely mutual.
“Margot, have you been to any shows since you’ve been in
Scotland?” Haven asks. She plops down on her bed and opens
up her laptop.
“Not really,” Margot says. “I’ve been so busy with classes.”
Margot’s not much of a live-music person anyway. She’s
looking at her phone; the skirt of her hanbok is fanned around
her. She’s the only one of us Song girls still fully clothed. I’ve
taken off my jacket, so I’m just in the slip and skirt, and
Kitty’s taken off both the jacket and the skirt and is just
wearing an undershirt and bloomers.
I sit down on the bed next to Haven so she can show me
pictures from their vacation to Bermuda on Instagram. As
she’s scrolling through her feed, a picture from the ski trip
pops up. Haven’s in the Charlottesville Youth Orchestra, so
she knows people from a lot of different schools, including
mine.
I can’t help but sigh a little when I see it—a picture of a
bunch of us on the bus the last morning. Peter has his arm
around me, he’s whispering something in my ear. I wish I
remembered what.
All surprised, Haven looks up and says, “Oh, hey, that’s
you, Lara Jean. What’s this from?”
“The school ski trip.”
“Is that your boyfriend?” Haven asks me, and I can tell
she’s impressed and trying not to show it.
I wish I could say yes. But—
Kitty scampers over to us and looks over our shoulders.
“Yes, and he’s the hottest guy you’ve ever seen in your life,
Haven.” She says it like a challenge. Margot, who was
scrolling on her phone, looks up and giggles.
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” I hedge. I mean, he’s the
hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, but I don’t know what
kind of people Haven goes to school with.
“No, Kitty’s right, he’s hot,” Haven admits. “Like, how did
you get him? No offense. I just thought you were the non-
dating type.”
I frown. The non-dating type? What kind of type is that? A
little mushroom who sits at home in a semidark room growing
moss?
“Lara Jean dates plenty,” Margot says loyally.
I blush. I date never, Peter barely even counts, but I’m glad
for the lie.
“What’s his name?” Haven asks me.
“Peter. Peter Kavinsky.” Even saying his name is a
remembered pleasure, something to savor, like a piece of
chocolate dissolving on my tongue.
“Ohh,” she says. “I thought he dated that pretty blond girl.
What’s her name? Jenna? Weren’t you guys best friends when
you were little?”
I feel a pang in my heart. “Her name is Genevieve. We used
to be friends, not anymore. And she and Peter have been
broken up for a while.”
“So then how long have you and Peter been together?”
Haven asks me. She has a dubious look in her eye, like she 90
percent believes me but there’s still that niggling 10 percent
that has doubt.
“We started hanging out in September.” At least that much
is true. “We’re not together right now; we’re kind of on a
break… . But I’m … optimistic.”
Kitty pokes my cheek, makes a dimple with her pinky.
“You’re smiling,” she says, and she’s smiling too. She cuddles
closer to me. “Make up with him today, okay? I want Peter
back.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say, though maybe it could be?
“Sure it’s that simple. He still likes you a lot—just tell him
you still like him, too, and boom. You’re back together and
it’ll be like you never kicked him out of our house.”
Haven’s eyes go even wider. “Lara Jean, you broke up with
him?”
“Geez, is it so hard to believe?” I narrow my eyes at her,
and Haven opens and then wisely closes her mouth.
She takes another look at the picture of Peter. Then she gets
up to go to the bathroom, and as she closes the door, she says,
“All I can say is, if that boy was my boyfriend, I’d never let
him go.”
My whole body tingles when she says those words.
I once had that exact same thought about Josh, and look at
me now: It’s like a million years have gone by and he’s just a
memory to me. I don’t want it to be like that with Peter. The
farawayness of old feelings, like even when you try with all
your might, you can barely make out his face when you close
your eyes. No matter what, I always want to remember his
face.
When it’s time to go, I’m putting on my coat and Peters letter
falls out of my pocket. Margot picks it up. “Another letter?”
I blush. In a rush I say, “I haven’t figured out when I should
give it to him, if I should leave it in his mailbox, or if I should
actually mail it? Or face to face? Gogo, what do you think?”
“You should just talk to him,” Margot says. “Go right now.
Daddy will drop you off. You go to his house, you give him
the letter, and then you see what he says.”
My heart pumps wildly at the thought. Right now? Just go
over there, without calling first, without a plan? “I don’t
know,” I hedge. “I feel like I should think it over more.”
Margot opens her mouth to respond, but then Kitty comes
up behind us and says, “Enough with the letters. Just go get
him back.”
“Don’t let it be too late,” Margot says, and I know she’s not
just talking about me and Peter.
I’ve been tiptoeing around the subject of Josh because of
everything that’s happened with us. I mean, Margot’s forgiven
me, but there’s no sense in rocking the boat. So these past
couple of days I’ve stayed silently supportive and hoped that
was enough. But Margot leaves for Scotland again in less than
a week. The thought of her leaving without at least talking to
Josh doesn’t feel right to me. We’ve all been friends for so
long. I know Josh and I will mend things, because we’re
neighbors, and that’s how it goes with people you see a lot.
They mend, almost on their own. But not so for Margot and
Josh, with her so far away. If they don’t talk now, the scar will
only harden over time, it will calcify, and then they’ll be like
strangers who never loved each other, which is the saddest
thought of all.
While Kitty’s putting on her boots, I whisper to Margot, “If
I talk to Peter, you should talk to Josh. Don’t go back to
Scotland and leave things like this with him.”
“We’ll see,” she says, but I see the hope that flares in her
eyes, and it gives me hope too.
2
MARGOT AND KITTY ARE BOTH asleep in the backseat.
Kitty’s got her head in Margot’s lap; Margot’s sleeping with
her head back and her mouth wide open. Daddy is listening to
NPR with a faint smile on his face. Everyone’s so peaceful,
and my heart is thumping a million beats a minute just in
anticipation of what I’m about to do.
I’m doing it now, this very night. Before we’re back at
school, before all the gears shift back to normal and Peter and
I are nothing more than a memory. Like snow globes, you
shake them up, and for a moment everything is upside down
and glitter everywhere and it’s just like magic—but then it all
settles and goes back to where it’s supposed to be. Things have
a way of settling back. I can’t go back.
I time it so that we are one stoplight from Peters
neighborhood when I ask Daddy to drop me off. He must hear
the intensity in my voice, the necessity, because he doesn’t ask
any questions, he just says yes.
When we pull up to Peters house, the lights are on and his
car is in the driveway; so is his mom’s minivan. The sun is just
going down, early because it’s winter. Across the street,
Peters neighbors still have their holiday lights up. Today’s
probably the last day for that, seeing as how it’s a new year.
New year, new start.
I can feel the veins in my wrists pulsing, and I’m nervous,
I’m so nervous. I run out of the car and ring the doorbell.
When I hear footsteps from inside, I wave Daddy off, and he
backs out of the driveway. Kitty’s awake now, and she’s got
her face up against the back window, grinning hard. She sends
me a thumbs-up and I wave back.
Peter opens the door. My heart jumps like a Mexican
jumping bean in my chest. He’s wearing a button-down I’ve
never seen before, plaid. It must have been a Christmas
present. His hair is mussed on top, like he’s been lying down.
He doesn’t look so very surprised to see me. “Hey.” He eyes
my skirt, which is poofing out from under my winter coat like
a ball gown. “Why are you so dressed up?”
“It’s for New Years.” Maybe I should’ve gone home and
changed first. At least then I would feel like me, standing at
this boy’s door, proverbial hat in hand. “So, hey, how was your
Christmas?”
“Good.” He takes his time, four whole seconds, before he
asks, “How was yours?”
“Great. We got a new puppy. His name is Jamie Fox-
Pickle.” Not even a trace of a smile from Peter. He’s cold; I
didn’t expect him to be cold. Maybe not even cold. Maybe just
indifferent. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Peter shrugs, which seems like a yes, but he doesn’t invite
me in. I have this sudden sick-to-my-stomach fear that
Genevieve is inside—which quickly dissipates when I
remember that if she were inside, he wouldn’t be out here with
me. He leaves the door ajar as he puts on sneakers and a coat,
and then steps onto the porch. He closes the door behind him
and sits down on the steps. I sit next to him, smoothing my
skirt around me. “So, what’s up?” he says, like I’m taking up
his precious time.
This isn’t right. Not what I expected at all.
But what, exactly, did I expect from Peter? I’d give him the
letter, and he’d read it, and then he’d love me? He’d take me
in his arms; we’d kiss passionately, but just kissing, just
innocent. Then what? We’d date? How long until he grew
bored of me, missed Genevieve, wanted more than I was
prepared to give, bedroomwise and also just lifewise?
Someone like him could never be content staying at home and
watching a movie on the couch. This is Peter Kavinsky we’re
talking about, after all.
I take so long swept up in my fast-forward reverie that he
says it again, just slightly less cold this time. “What, Lara
Jean?” He looks at me like he’s waiting for something, and
suddenly I’m afraid to give it.
I tighten my fist around the letter, shove it into my coat
pocket. My hands are freezing. I don’t have any gloves or hat;
I should probably just go home. “I just came to say to say
I’m sorry for the way things turned out. And I hope we can
still be friends, and happy new year.”
His eyes narrow at this. “‘Happy new year’?” he repeats.
“That’s what you came here to say? Sorry and happy new
year?”
“And I hope we can still be friends,” I add, biting my lip.
“You hope we can still be friends,” he repeats, and there is
a note of sarcasm in his voice that I don’t understand or like.
“That’s what I said.” I start to stand up. I was hoping he’d
give me a ride home, but now I don’t want to ask. But it’s so
cold outside. Maybe if I hint… . Blowing on my hands, I say,
“Well, I’m gonna head home.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s go back to the apology part. What are
you apologizing for, exactly? For kicking me out of your
house, or for thinking I’m a dirtbag who would go around
telling people we had sex when we didn’t?”
A lump forms in my throat. When he puts it that way, it
really does sound terrible. “Both of those things. I’m sorry for
both of those things.”
Peter cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows raised. “And
what else?”
I bristle. What else? “There is no ‘what else.’ That’s it.”
Thank God I didn’t give him the letter, if this is how he’s
going to be. It’s not like I’m the only one with stuff to
apologize for.
“Hey, you’re the one who came here talking about ‘I’m
sorry’ and ‘let’s be friends.’ You don’t get to force me into
accepting your half-assed apology.”
“Well, I wish you a happy new year anyway.” Now I’m the
one being sarcastic, and it sure is satisfying. “Have a nice life.
Auld lang syne and all that.”
“Fine. Bye.”
I turn to go. I was so hopeful this morning, I had such stars
in my eyes imagining how this was all going to go. God, what
a jerk Peter is. Good riddance to him!
“Wait a minute.”
Hope leaps into my heart like Jamie Fox-Pickle leaps into
my bed—swift and unbidden. But I turn back around, like
Ugh, what do you want now, so he doesn’t see it.
“What’s that you’ve got crumpled up in your pocket?”
My hand flies down to my pocket. “That? Oh, it’s nothing.
It’s junk mail. It was on the ground by your mailbox. No
worries, I’ll recycle it for you.”
“Give it to me and I’ll recycle it right now,” he says,
holding out his hand.
“No, I said I’ll do it.” I reach down to stuff the letter deeper
into my coat pocket, and Peter tries to snatch it out of my
hand. I twist away from him wildly and hold on tight. He
shrugs, and I relax and let out a small sigh of relief, and then
he lunges forward and plucks it away from me.
I pant, “Give it back, Peter!”
Blithely he says, “Tampering with US mail is a federal
offense.” Then he looks down at the envelope. “This is to me.
From you.” I make a desperate grab for the envelope, and it
takes him by surprise. We wrestle for it; I’ve got the corner of
it in my grip, but he’s not letting go. “Stop, you’re going to rip
it!” he yells, prying it out of my grasp.
I try to grab harder, but it’s too late. He has it.
Peter holds the envelope above my head and tears it open
and begins to read. It’s torturous standing there in front of him,
waiting—for what, I don’t know. More humiliation? I should
probably just go. He’s such a slow reader.
When he’s finally done, he asks, “Why weren’t you going
to give me this? Why were you just going to leave?”
“Because, I don’t know, you didn’t seem so glad to see
me… .” My voice trails off lamely.
“It’s called playing hard to get! I’ve been waiting for you to
call me, you dummy. It’s been six days.”
I suck in my breath. “Oh!”
“‘Oh.’” He pulls me by the lapels of my coat, closer to him,
close enough to kiss. He’s so close I can see the puffs his
breath makes. So close I could count his eyelashes if I wanted.
In a low voice he says, “So then … you still like me?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I mean, sort of.” My heartbeat is going
quick-quick-quick. I’m giddy. Is this a dream? If so, let me
never wake up.
Peter gives me a look like Get real, you know you like me. I
do, I do. Then, softly, he says, “Do you believe me that I didn’t
tell people we had sex on the ski trip?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He inhales. “Did did anything happen with you
and Sanderson after I left your house that night?” He’s jealous!
The very thought of it warms me up like hot soup. I start to tell
him no way, but he quickly says, “Wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t
want to know.”
“No,” I say, firmly so he knows I mean it. He nods but
doesn’t say anything.
Then he leans in, and I close my eyes, heart thrumming in
my chest like hummingbird wings. We’ve technically only
kissed four times, and only one of those times was for real. I’d
like to just get right to it, so I can stop being nervous. But
Peter doesn’t kiss me, not the way I expect. He kisses me on
my left cheek, and then my right; his breath is warm. And then
nothing. My eyes fly open. Is this a literal kiss-off? Why isn’t
he kissing me properly? “What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Building the anticipation.”
Quickly I say, “Let’s just kiss.”
He angles his head, and his cheek brushes against mine,
which is when the front door opens, and it’s Peters younger
brother, Owen, standing there with his arms crossed. I spring
away from Peter like I just found out he has some incurable
infectious disease. “Mom wants you guys to come in and have
some cider,” he says, smirking.
“In a minute,” Peter says, pulling me back.
“She said right now,” Owen says.
Oh my God. I throw a panicky look at Peter. “I should
probably get going before my dad starts to worry… .”
He nudges me toward the door with his chin. “Just come
inside for a minute, and then I’ll take you home.” As I step
inside, he takes off my coat and says in a low voice, “Were
you really going to walk all the way home in that fancy dress?
In the cold?”
“No, I was going to guilt you into driving me,” I whisper
back.
“What’s with your outfit?” Owen says to me.
“It’s what Korean people wear on New Years Day,” I tell
him.
Peters mom steps out of the kitchen with two steaming
mugs. She’s wearing a long cashmere cardigan that’s loosely
belted around her waist, and cream cable-knit slippers. “It’s
stunning,” she says. “You look gorgeous. So colorful.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling embarrassed over the fuss.
The three of us sit down in the family room; Owen escapes
to the kitchen. I still feel flushed from the almost kiss and from
the fact that Peters mom probably knows what we were up to.
I wonder, too, what she knows about what’s been going on
with us, how much he’s told her, if anything.
“How was your Christmas, Lara Jean?” his mom asks me.
I blow into my mug. “It was really nice. My dad bought my
little sister a puppy, and we’ve just been fighting over who
gets to hold him. And my older sisters still home from
college, so that’s been nice too. How was your holiday, Mrs.
Kavinsky?”
“Oh, it was nice. Quiet.” She points to her slippers. “Owen
got me these. How did the holiday party go? Did your sisters
like the fruitcake cookies Peter baked? Honestly, I can’t stand
them.”
Surprised, I look over at Peter, who is suddenly busy
scrolling on his phone. “I thought you said your mom made
them.”
His mom smiles a proud kind of smile. “Oh no, he did it all
by himself. He was very determined.”
“They tasted like garbage!” Owen yells from the kitchen.
His mom laughs again, and then things are silent. My mind
is racing, trying to think up potential conversation pieces. New
Years resolutions, maybe? The snowstorm we’re supposed to
get next week? Peters no help at all; he’s looking at his phone
again.
She stands up. “It was nice to see you, Lara Jean. Peter,
don’t keep her out too late.”
“I won’t.” To me he says, “I’ll be right back; I’m just gonna
get my keys.”
When he’s gone, I say, “I’m sorry for dropping in like this
on New Years Day. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”
“You’re welcome here anytime.” She leans forward and
puts her hand on my knee. With a meaningful look she says,
“Just be easy with his heart is all I ask.”
My stomach does a dip. Did Peter tell her what happened
between us?
She gives my knee a pat and stands up. “Good night, Lara
Jean.”
“Good night,” I echo.
Despite her kind smile, I feel like I’ve just gotten in trouble.
There was a hint of reproach in her voice—I know I heard it.
Don’t mess with my son is what she was saying. Was Peter
very upset by what happened between us? He didn’t make it
out like he was. Annoyed, maybe a little hurt. Certainly not
hurt enough to talk to his mom about it. But maybe he and his
mom are really close. I hate to think I may have already made
a bad impression, before Peter and I have even gotten going.
It’s pitch black out, not many stars in the sky. I think maybe
it’ll snow again soon. At my house, all the lights are on
downstairs, and Margot’s bedroom light is on upstairs. Across
the street I can see Ms. Rothschild’s little Christmas tree lit up
in the window.
Peter and I are warm and cozy in his car. Heat billows out
the vents. I ask him, “Did you tell your mom about how we
broke up?”
“No. Because we never broke up,” he says, turning the heat
down.
“We didn’t?”
He laughs. “No, because we were never really together,
remember?”
Are we together now? is what I’m wondering, but I don’t
ask, because he puts his arm around me and tilts my head up to
his, and I’m nervous again. “Don’t be nervous,” he says.
I give him a quick kiss to prove I’m not.
“Kiss me like you missed me,” he says, and his voice goes
husky.
“I did,” I say. “My letter told you I did.”
“Yeah, but—”
I kiss him before he can finish. Properly. Like I mean it. He
kisses back like he means it too. Like it’s been four hundred
years. And then I’m not thinking anymore and I’m just lost in
the kissing.
3
AFTER PETER DROPS ME OFF, I run inside to tell Margot
and Kitty everything, and I feel like a purse bulging with gold
coins. I can’t wait to spill.
Kitty’s lying on the couch, watching TV with Jamie Fox-
Pickle in her lap, and she scrambles up when I come through
the door. In a hushed voice she says, “Gogo’s crying.”
My enthusiasm dries up instantly. “What! Why?”
“I think she went over to Josh’s and they had a talk and it
wasn’t good. You should go check on her.”
Oh no. This isn’t how it was supposed to go for them. They
were supposed to get back together, like Peter and me.
Kitty settles back on the couch, remote in hand, her sisterly
duty fulfilled. “How did it go with Peter?”
“Great,” I say. “Really great.” The smile comes to my face
without me even intending it, and I quickly wipe it away, out
of respect for Margot.
I go to the kitchen and make Margot a cup of Night-Night
tea, two tablespoons of honey, like Mommy used to make us
for bedtime. For a second I contemplate adding a splash of
whiskey because I saw it on a Victorian show on PBS—the
maids would put whiskey in the lady of the manors hot
beverage to calm her nerves. I know Margot drinks at college,
but she already has a hangover, and besides, I doubt Daddy
would be into it. So I just put the tea, sans whiskey, in my
favorite mug, and I send Kitty upstairs with it. I tell her to act
adorable. I say she should first give Margot the tea and then
snuggle with her for at least five minutes. Which Kitty balks
at, because Kitty only cuddles if there’s something in it for her,
and also because I know it frightens her to see Margot upset.
“I’ll just bring her Jamie to cuddle with,” Kitty says.
Selfish!
When I go to Margot’s room with a piece of buttered
cinnamon toast, Kitty’s nowhere in sight and neither is Jamie.
Margot’s curled up on her side, crying. “It’s really over, Lara
Jean,” she whispers. “It’s been over, but now I know it’s over
for good. I th-thought that if I wanted to get back together, he
would too, but he d-doesn’t.” I curl up next to her, my
forehead pressed to her back. I can feel every breath she takes.
She weeps into her pillow, and I scratch her shoulder blades
the way she likes. The thing to know about Margot is she
never cries, so seeing her cry sets my world, and this house,
off its axis. Everything feels tilted somehow. “He says that
long distance is too h-hard, that I was right to break up with
him in the first place. I missed him so much, and it seems like
he didn’t miss me at all.”
I bite my lip guiltily. I was the one who encouraged her to
talk to Josh. This is partly my fault. “Margot, he did miss you.
He missed you like crazy. I would look out the window during
French class, and I would see him outside on the bleachers
eating his lunch alone. It was depressing.”
She sniffles. “Did he really?”
“Yes.” I don’t understand what’s the matter with Josh. He
acted like he was so in love with her; he practically went into a
depression when she was gone. And now this?
Sighing, she says, “I think I think I just still really love
him.”
“You do?” Love. Margot said “love.” I don’t think I’ve ever
heard her say she loved Josh before. Maybe “in love,” but
never “love.”
Margot wipes her eyes with her sheet. “The whole reason I
broke up with him was so I wouldn’t be that girl crying over
her boyfriend, and now that’s exactly what I am. It’s pathetic.”
“You’re the least pathetic person I know, Gogo,” I tell her.
Margot stops sniffling and rolls around so we’re lying face
to face. Frowning at me, she says, “I didn’t say I was pathetic.
I said crying over a boy was.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I still don’t think it’s pathetic to cry over
someone. It just means you care about them deeply and you’re
sad.”
“I’ve been crying so much I feel like my eyes look like
like shriveled-up raisins. Do they?” Margot squints at me.
“They are swollen,” I admit. “Your eyes just aren’t used to
crying. I have an idea!” I leap out of bed and run downstairs to
the kitchen. I fill a cereal bowl with ice and two silver spoons
and come running back. “Lie back down,” I instruct, and
Margot obeys. “Close your eyes.” I put a spoon over each eye.
“Does this really work?”
“I saw it in a magazine.”
When the spoons warm up against her skin, I dip them back
into the ice and back onto her face, over and over again. She
asks me to tell her what happened with Peter, so I do, but I
leave out all the kissing because it feels in poor taste in light of
her own heartbreak. She sits up and says, “You don’t have to
pretend to like Peter just to spare my feelings.” Margot
swallows painfully, like she has a sore throat. “If any part of
you still likes Josh if he likes you …” I gasp in horror. I
open my mouth to deny it, to say that it feels like forever ago
already, but she silences me with her hand. “It would be really
hard, but I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of that, you
know? I mean it, Lara Jean. You can tell me.”
I’m so relieved, so grateful she’s bringing it up. I rush to
say, “Oh my gosh, I don’t like Josh, Gogo. Not like that. Not at
all. And he doesn’t like me like that either. I think I think
we were both just missing you. Peters the one I like.” Under
the blanket I find Margot’s hand and link my pinky with hers.
“Sister swear.”
She swallows hard. “Then I guess there’s no secret reason
for him not wanting to get back together. I guess it’s as simple
as he just doesn’t want to be with me anymore.”
“No, it’s as simple as you’re in Scotland and he’s in
Virginia and it’s too hard. You were wise to break it off when
you did. Wise and brave and right.”
Doubt creeps across her face like dark shadows, and then
she shakes her head and her expression clears. “Enough about
me and Josh. We’re yesterday’s news. Tell me more about
Peter. Please, it’ll make me feel better.” She lies back down,
and I put the spoons back on her eyes.
“Well, tonight at first he was very cool with me, very blasé
blasé—”
“No, go all the way back to the beginning.”
So I go back further: I tell her about our pretend
relationship, the hot tub, everything. She keeps taking the
spoons off so she can look at me as I tell her. But before long
her eyes do look less puffy. And I feel lighter—giddy, even.
I’ve kept all these things secret from her for months, and now
she knows everything that’s happened since she’s been gone,
and I feel so close to her again. You can’t be close to someone,
not truly, with secrets in between you.
Margot clears her throat. She hesitates and then asks, “So,
how does he kiss?”
I’m blushing. I tap my fingers on my lips before I say, “He
kisses like … like it could be his job.”
Margot giggles and lifts the spoons off her eyes. “Like a
male prostitute?”
I grab one of the spoons and tap her on the forehead with it
like a gong.
“Ow!” She snatches for the other spoon, but I’m too quick
and I’ve got them both. We’re both laughing like crazy as I try
to get in another gong on her forehead.
“Margot did it hurt when you had sex?” I’m careful not
to say Josh’s name. It’s strange, because Margot and I have
never talked about sex before in any kind of real way, because
neither of us had a point of reference. But now she does and I
don’t, and I want to know what she knows.
“Umm. I mean, the first couple of times, a little.” Now
she’s the one who’s blushing. “Lara Jean, I can’t talk about
this with you. It’s too weird. Can’t you just ask Chris?”
“No, I want to hear it from you. Please, Gogo. You have to
tell me everything about it so I’ll know. I don’t want to look
like a fool when I do it the first time.”
“It’s not like Josh and I had sex hundreds of times! I’m not
an expert. He’s the only person I’ve done it with. But if you’re
thinking about having sex with Peter, make sure you’re careful
and you use a condom and everything.” I nod quickly. This is
when she’ll get to the good stuff. “And just be really sure, as
sure as you can be. And make sure he knows to be really
gentle and caring with you, so it’s special and it’s something
you can look back on with good feelings.”
“Got it. So, like, how long did it last from start to finish?”
“Not that long. Don’t forget, it was Josh’s first time too.”
She sounds wistful. Now I feel wistful too. Peters done it with
Genevieve so many times, he’s probably an expert by now. I’ll
probably even have an orgasm my first time out. Which is
great, but it might’ve been nice if we both didn’t know what
we were doing instead of just me.
“You don’t regret it, do you?”
“No. I don’t think so. I think I’ll always be glad it was with
Josh. No matter how it’s turned out.” This is a relief to me,
that even now, with eyes red from crying, Margot still doesn’t
regret having loved Josh.
I sleep in her room that night like old times, huddled beside
her under her quilt. Margot’s room is coldest, because it’s
above the garage. I listen as the heat clicks off and on.
In the dark next to me she says, “I’m going to date a bunch
of Scottish guys when I get back to school. When else will I
have another opportunity like that, right?”
I giggle and roll over so we’re face-to-face. “No, wait—
don’t date a bunch of Scottish guys. Date one from England,
one from Ireland, one from Scotland. And Wales! A tour of the
British Empire!”
“Well, I am going to school to study anthropology,” Margot
says, and we giggle some more. “You know the saddest part?
Josh and I will never be friends like we were before. Not after
all this. That part’s just over now. He was my best friend.”
I give her fake-wounded eyes to lighten the mood, so she
won’t start crying again. “Hey, I thought I was your best
friend!”
“You’re not my best friend. You’re my sister, and that’s
more.”
It is more.
“Josh and I started out so easy, so fun, and now we’re like
strangers. I’ll never have that person back, who I knew better
than anyone and who knew me so well.”
I feel a pinch in my heart. When she says it that way, it’s so
sad. “You could become friends again, after some time has
passed.” But it wouldn’t be the same, I know that. You’d
always be mourning what once was. It would always be a little
bit … less.
“But it won’t be like before.”
“No,” I agree. “I suppose it won’t.” Strangely, I think of
Genevieve, of who we used to be to each other. Ours was the
kind of friendship that makes sense as a kid but not so much
now that we’re older. I suppose you can’t hold on to old things
just for the sake of holding on.
It’s the end of an era, it seems. No more Margot and Josh.
This time for real. It’s real because Margot is crying, and I can
hear it in her voice that it’s over, and this time we both know
it. Things have changed.
“Don’t let it happen to you, Lara Jean. Don’t get too serious
to where things can’t go back. Be in love with Peter if you
want, but be careful with your heart. Things feel like they’ll be
forever, but they aren’t. Love can go away, or people can,
without even meaning to. Nothing is guaranteed.”
Gulp. “I promise I’ll be careful.” But I’m not sure I even
know what that means. How can I be careful when I already
like him so much?
4
MARGOT’S OFF SHOPPING FOR NEW boots with her
friend Casey, Daddy’s at work, and Kitty and I are lazing
about watching TV when my phone buzzes next to me. It’s a
text from Peter. Movie tonight? I text back yes, exclamation point.
Then I delete the exclamation point for sounding too eager.
Though without the exclamation point, the yes seems
completely unenthused. I settle on a smiley face and press
send before I can obsess over it further.
“Who are you texting with?” Kitty is sprawled out on the
living room floor, spooning pudding into her mouth. Jamie
tries to steal a lick, but she shakes her head and scolds, “You
know you can’t have chocolate!”
“I was texting with Peter. You know, that might not even be
real chocolate. It might be imitation. Check the label.”
Of all of us, Kitty is firmest with Jamie. She doesn’t
immediately pick him up when he’s crying to be held; she
sprays him in the face with a water bottle when he’s naughty.
All tricks she’s learning from our across-the-street neighbor
Ms. Rothschild, who it turns out is kind of a dog whisperer.
She used to have three dogs, but when she and her husband got
divorced, she got to keep Simone the golden retriever, and he
got custody of the other two.
“Is Peter your boyfriend again?” Kitty asks me.
“Um. I’m not sure.” After what Margot said last night about
taking things slow and being careful with my heart and not
going to a point of no return, maybe it’s good to exist in a
place of unsureness for a while. Also, it’s hard to redefine
something that never had a clear definition in the first place.
We were two people pretending to like each other, pretending
to be a couple, so now what are we? And how might it have
unfolded if we’d started liking each other without the
pretense? Would we ever have been a couple? I guess we’ll
never know.
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Kitty presses.
“Shouldn’t you know if you’re somebody’s girlfriend or not?”
“We haven’t discussed it yet. I mean, not explicitly.”
Kitty switches the channel. “You should look into that.”
I roll on my side and prop myself up on my elbow. “But
would that change anything? I mean, we like each other.
What’s the difference between that and the label? What would
change?” Kitty doesn’t answer. “Hello?”
“Sorry, can you say that again at the commercial break? I’m
trying to watch my show.”
I throw a pillow at her head. “I would be better off
discussing these things with Jamie.” I clap my hands.
“C’mere, Jamie!”
Jamie lifts his head to look at me and then lies back down
again, nestled against Kitty’s side, still hoping for pudding,
I’m sure.
In the car last night Peter didn’t seem troubled by the status
of our relationship. He seemed happy and carefree as always.
I’m definitely a person who worries too much over every little
thing. I could do with a bit more of Peters roll-with-it
philosophy in my life.
“Wanna help me pick out what to wear to the movies with
Peter tonight?” I ask Kitty.
“Can I come too?”
“No!” Kitty starts to pout and I amend: “Maybe next time.”
“Fine. Show me two options and I’ll tell you which is the
better one.”
I dart upstairs to my room and start going through my
closet. This will be our actual first date, I want to wow him a
bit. Unfortunately, Peters already seen me in my good outfits,
so the only thing to do is go for Margot’s closet. She has a
cream sweater dress she brought back from Scotland that I can
put with tights and my little brown boots. There’s also her
periwinkle Fair Isle sweater I’ve been admiring; I can wear it
with my yellow skirt and a yellow ribbon in my hair, which
I’ll curl, because Peter once told me he liked it curled.
“Kitty!” I scream. “Come up and look at my two options!”
“On the commercial break!” she screams back.
In the meantime I text Margot:
Can I borrow your fair isle sweater or your cream sweater dress??
Oui.
Kitty votes for the Fair Isle sweater, saying I look like I’m
wearing an ice-skating outfit, which I like the sound of. “You
can wear it if we go ice skating,” she says. “You, me, and
Peter.”
I laugh. “All right.”
5
PETER AND I ARE STANDING in line for popcorn at the
movies. Even just this mundane thing feels like the best
mundane thing that’s ever happened to me. I check my pocket
to make sure I’ve still got my ticket stub. This I’ll want to
save.
Gazing up at Peter, I whisper, “This is my first date.” I feel
like the nerdy girl in the movie who lands the coolest guy in
school, and I don’t mind one bit. Not one bit.
“How can this be your first date when we’ve gone out
plenty of times?”
“It’s my first real date. Those other times were just pretend;
this is the real thing.”
He frowns. “Oh, wait, is this real? I didn’t realize that.”
I move to slug him in the shoulder, and he laughs and grabs
my hand and links my fingers with his. It feels like my heart is
beating right through my hand. It’s the first time we’ve held
hands for real, and it feels different from those fake times.
Like electric currents, in a good way. The best way.
We’re moving up in the line, and I realize I’m nervous,
which is strange, because this is Peter. But he’s also a different
Peter, and I’m a different Lara Jean, because this is a date, an
actual date. Just to make conversation, I ask, “So, when you go
to the movies are you more of a chocolate kind of candy or a
gummy kind of candy?”
“Neither. All I want is popcorn.”
“Then we’re doomed! You’re neither, and I’m either or all
of the above.” We get to the cashier and I start fishing around
for my wallet.
Peter laughs. “You think I’m going to make a girl pay on
her first date?” He puffs out his chest and says to the cashier,
“Can we have one medium popcorn with butter, and can you
layer the butter? And a Sour Patch Kids and a box of Milk
Duds. And one small Cherry Coke.”
“How did you know that was what I wanted?”
“I pay a lot better attention than you think, Covey.” Peter
slings his arm around my shoulders with a self-satisfied smirk,
and he accidentally hits my right boob.
“Ow!”
He laughs an embarrassed laugh. “Whoops. Sorry. Are you
okay?”
I give him a hard elbow to the side, and he’s still laughing
as we walk into the theater—which is when we see Genevieve
and Emily coming out of the ladies’ room. The last time I saw
Genevieve, she was telling everyone on the ski trip bus how
Peter and I had sex in the hot tub. I feel a strong surge of
panic, of fight or flight.
Peter slows down for a second, and I’m not sure what’s
going to happen. Do we have to go over and say hi? Do we
keep walking? His arm tightens around me, and I can feel
Peters hesitance too. He’s torn.
Genevieve solves it for everyone. She walks into the theater
like she didn’t see us. The same theater we’re going into. I
don’t look at Peter, and he doesn’t say anything either. I guess
we’re just going to pretend like she isn’t here? He steers me
through the same set of doors and picks our seats, far left
toward the back. Genevieve and Emily are sitting in the
middle. I see her blond head, the back of her dove gray dress
coat. I make myself look away. If Gen turns around, I don’t
want to be caught staring.
We sit down, and I’m taking off my coat and getting comfy
in my seat when Peters phone buzzes. He pulls it out of his
pocket and then puts it away, and I know it was Gen, but I feel
like I can’t ask. Her presence has punctured the night. Two
vampire bite marks right into it.
The lights dim, and Peter puts his arm back around me. Is
he going to keep it there the whole movie, I wonder. I feel
stiff, and I try to even my breathing. He whispers in my ear,
“Relax, Covey.”
I’m trying, but it’s sort of impossible to relax on command
under these circumstances. Peter gives my shoulder a squeeze,
and he leans in and nuzzles my neck. “You smell nice,” he
says in a low voice.
I laugh, a touch too loudly, and the man sitting in front of
us whips around in his seat and glares at me. Chastened, I say
to Peter, “Sorry, I’m really ticklish.”
“No worries,” he says, keeping his arm around me.
I smile and nod, but now I’m wondering—is he expecting
that we’re going to do stuff during the movie? Is that why he
picked seats in the back when there were still free seats in the
middle? Panic is rising inside me. Genevieve is here! And
other people too! I might have made out with him in a hot tub,
but there wasn’t anyone around to see. Also, I kind of just
want to watch the movie. I lean forward to take a sip of soda,
but really it’s just so I can subtly move away from him.
After the movie we have an unspoken understanding to hustle
out so we don’t run into Genevieve again. The two of us bolt
out of the theater like the devil is on our heels—which, I
suppose, she sort of is. Peters hungry, but I’m too full from all
the junk to eat a real dinner, so I suggest we just go to the
diner and I’ll share his fries. But Peter says, “I feel like we
should go to a real restaurant since this is your first date.”
“I never knew you had such a romantic side.” I say it like
it’s a joke, but I mean it.
“Get used to it,” he boasts. “I know how to treat a girl.”
He takes me to Biscuit Soul Food—his favorite restaurant,
he says. I watch him scarf down fried chicken with hot honey
and Tabasco drizzled on top, and I wonder how many times
Genevieve has sat and watched him do the very same thing.
Our town isn’t that big. There aren’t many places we can go
that he hasn’t already been with Genevieve. When I get up to
go to the bathroom, I suddenly wonder if he’s texting her back,
but I make myself push this thought out of my mind tout de
suite. So what if he does text back? They’re still friends. He’s
allowed. I’m not going to let Gen ruin this night for me. I want
to be right here, in this moment, just the two of us on our first
date.
I sit back down, and Peters finished his fried chicken and
he has a pile of dirty napkins in front of him. He has a habit of
wiping his fingers every time he takes a bite. There’s honey on
his cheek, and a bit of breading is stuck to it, but I don’t tell
him, because I think it’s funny.
“So how was your first date?” Peter asks me, stretching
back in his chair. “Tell it to me like it wasn’t me that took
you.”
“I liked it when you knew what kinds of movie theater
snacks I like.” He nods encouragingly. “And I liked the
movie.”
“Yeah, I got that. You kept shushing me and pointing at the
screen.”
“That man in front of us was getting mad.” I hesitate. I’m
not sure if I should say this next thing I want to say, the thing
I’ve been thinking all night. “I don’t know is it just me, or
…”
He leans in closer, now he’s listening. “What?”
I take a deep breath. “Is it a little weird? I mean, first we
were fake, and then we weren’t, and then we had a fight, and
now here we are and you’re eating fried chicken. It’s like we
did everything in the wrong order, and it’s good, but it’s
still kind of upside down.” And also were you trying to feel me
up during the movie?
“I guess it’s a little weird,” he admits.
I sip my sweet tea, relieved that he doesn’t think I’m the
weird one for bringing up all the weirdness.
He grins at me. “Maybe what we need is a new contract.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking or if he’s serious, so I play along.
“What would go in the contract?”
“Off the top of my head I guess I’d have to call you
every night before I went to bed. You’d agree to come to all
my lacrosse games. Some practices, too. I’d have to come to
your house for dinner. You’d have to come to parties with
me.”
I make a face at the parties part. “Let’s just do the things we
want to do. Like before.” Suddenly I hear Margot’s voice in
my head. “Let’s … let’s have fun.”
He nods, and now he’s the one who looks relieved. “Yeah!”
I like that he doesn’t take things too seriously. In other
people that could be annoying, but not him. It’s one of his best
qualities, I think. That and his face. I could stare at his face all
day long. I sip sweet tea out of my straw and look at him. A
contract might actually be good for us. It could help us to head
problems off at the pass and keep us accountable. I think
Margot would be proud of me for this.
I pull a little notebook out of my purse and a pen. I write
Lara Jean and Peters New Contract on the top of the page.
Line one I write, Peter will be on time.
Peter cranes his neck to read upside down. “Wait, does that
say, ‘Peter will be on time’?”
“If you say you’re going to be somewhere, then be there.”
Peter scowls. “I didn’t show up one time and you hold a
grudge—”
“But you’re always late.”
“That’s not the same as not showing up!”
“Being late all the time shows a lack of respect for the
person who’s waiting for you.”
“I respect you! I respect you more than any girl I know!”
I point at him. “‘Girl’? Just ‘girl’? What boy do you respect
more than me?”
Peter throws his head back and groans so loudly it’s a roar.
I reach across the table, over the food, and grab him by the
collar and kiss him before we can fight again. Though I have
to say, it’s this kind of fighting, the bickering kind, not the
hurt-feelings kind, that makes us feel like us for the first time
all night.
This is what we decide on.
Peter will not be more than five minutes late.
Lara Jean will not make Peter do crafts of any
kind.
Peter doesn’t have to call Lara Jean before he goes
to bed at night, but he can if he feels like it.
Lara Jean will only go to parties if she feels like it.
Peter will give Lara Jean rides whenever she
wants.
Lara Jean and Peter will always tell each other the
truth.
There’s one thing I want to add to the contract, but I’m
nervous to broach the subject now that things are going
smoothly.
Peter can still be friends with Genevieve, as long as he is
up front with Lara Jean about it.
Or maybe it’s Peter will not lie to Lara Jean about
Genevieve. But that’s redundant, because we already have the
rule about always telling each other the truth. A rule like that
wouldn’t be the truth anyway. What I really want to say is
Peter will always pick Lara Jean over Genevieve. But I can’t
say that. Of course I can’t. I don’t know a ton about dating or
guys, but I do know that jealous insecurity is a real turnoff.
So I bite my tongue; I don’t say what I’m thinking. There’s
only one thing, one really important thing I want to be sure of.
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want us to ever break each others hearts.”
Peter laughs easily; he cups my cheek in his hand. “Are you
planning on breaking my heart, Covey?”
“No. And I’m sure you’re not planning on breaking mine.
Nobody ever plans it.”
“Then put that in the contract. Peter and Lara Jean promise
not to break each others hearts.”
I beam at him, relieved as anything, and then I write it
down. Lara Jean and Peter will not break each others hearts.
6
THE DAY BEFORE WE GO back to school, Kitty and I are
lying in my bed watching pet videos on my computer. Our
puppy, Jamie Fox-Pickle, is curled up in a ball at the foot of
the bed. Kitty wrapped him up in her nubby old baby blanket
so only his face is peeking out. He’s dreaming—I can tell by
the way he shudders and shakes every so often. I can’t tell if
it’s a good dream or a bad dream.
“Do you think we should start doing videos of Jamie?”
Kitty asks me. “He’s cute enough, right?”
“He’s definitely got the look, but he doesn’t have any
discernible talent or quirky thing about him.” As soon as I say
the word “quirky,” I think of Peter and how he once said I was
“cute in a quirky way.” I wonder if that’s still how he sees me.
I’ve heard people say that the more you like someone, the
more you think they are beautiful even if you didn’t think so in
the beginning.
“Jamie does that thing where he prances around like a baby
deer,” Kitty reminds me.
“Hm. I wouldn’t exactly call that a ‘thing.’ It’s not the same
as leaping into cardboard boxes or playing the piano or having
a really grumpy face.”
“Ms. Rothschild will help me train him. She thinks he has
the right personality for tricks.” Kitty clicks on the next video,
a dog that howls when you play Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”
Kitty and I crack up and we watch it again.
After a video of a woman whose cat wraps itself around her
face like a scarf, I say, “Wait a minute—did you do your
homework?”
“All I had to do was read a book.”
“So did you read it?”
“Mostly,” Kitty hedges, snuggling in closer to me.
“You’ve had all of Christmas break to read it, Kitty!” I
really wish Kitty were more of a reader like Margot and me.
She much prefers TV. I click stop on the video and snap my
computer shut with a flourish. “No more pet videos for you.
You go finish your book.” I start to shove her out of the bed,
and Kitty grabs on to my leg.
“Sweet my sister, cast me not away!” Proudly she says,
“That’s Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet, in case you haven’t
read it.”
“Don’t act high and mighty like you were reading
Shakespeare. I saw you watching the movie on TV the other
day.”
“Who cares if I read it or I saw the movie? The message is
still the same.” Kitty crawls back up by me.
I pat her hair. “So what’s the message?”
“Don’t kill yourself over a boy.”
“Or a girl.”
“Or a girl,” she agrees. She opens up my computer. “One
more cat video and then I’ll go read.”
My phone buzzes, a text from Chris.
Check Anonybitch’s instagram NOW.
Anonybitch is an anonymous Instagram account that puts
up scandalous pictures and videos of people hooking up and
getting drunk at parties around town. No one knows who runs
the account; they just send in the content. There was a picture
of a girl from another high school that went viral last year—
she was flashing a cop car. I heard she got expelled from
school for it.
My phone buzzes again.
NOW!
“Hold on, Kitty, let me check something first,” I say,
pausing the video. As I type in the address, I say, “If you want
to stay in here, close your eyes until I tell you to open them.”
Kitty obeys.
At the top of Anonybitch’s feed, there is a video of a boy
and a girl making out in a hot tub. Anonybitch is particularly
famous for her hot tub videos. She tags them #rubadub. This
one’s a little grainy, like it was zoomed in from far away. I
click play. The girl is sitting in the boy’s lap, her body draped
over his, legs hooked around his waist, arms around his neck.
She’s wearing a red nightgown, and it billows in the water like
a full sail. The back of her head obscures the boy. Her hair is
long, and the ends dip into the hot tub like calligraphy brushes
in ink. The boy runs his hands down her spine like she is a
cello and he is playing her.
I’m so entranced I don’t notice at first that Kitty is
watching with me. Both of our heads are tilted, trying to suss
out what it is we’re looking at. “You shouldn’t be looking at
this,” I say.
“Are they doing it?” she asks.
“It’s hard to say because of her nightgown.” But maybe?
Then the girl touches the boy’s cheek, and there is
something about the movement, the way she touches him like
she is reading braille. Something familiar. The back of my
neck goes icy cold, and I am hit with a gust of awareness, of
humiliating recognition.
That girl is me. Me and Peter, in the hot tub on the ski trip.
Oh my God.
I scream.
Margot comes racing in, wearing one of those Korean
beauty masks on her face with slits for eyes, nose, and mouth.
“What? What?
I try to cover the computer screen with my hand, but she
pushes it out of the way, and then she lets out a scream too.
Her mask falls off. “Oh my God! Is that you?”
Oh my God oh my God oh my God.
“Don’t let Kitty see!” I shout.
Kitty’s wide-eyed. “Lara Jean, I thought you were a goody-
goody.”
“I am!” I scream.
Margot gulps. “That … that looks like …”
“I know. Don’t say it.”
“Don’t worry, Lara Jean,” Kitty soothes. “I’ve seen worse
on regular TV, not even HBO.”
“Kitty, go to your room!” Margot yells. Kitty whimpers and
clings closer to me.
I can’t believe what I am seeing. The caption reads Goody
two shoes Lara Jean having full-on sex with Kavinsky in the
hot tub. Do condoms work underwater? Guess we’ll find out
soon enough. ;) The comments are a lot of wide-eyed emojis
and lols. Someone named Veronica Chen wrote, What a slut!
Is she Asian?? I don’t even know who Veronica Chen is!
“Who could have done this to me?” I wail, pressing my
hands to my cheeks. “I can’t feel my face. Is my face still my
face?”
“Who the hell is Anonybitch?” Margot demands.
“No one knows,” I say, and the roaring in my ears is so
loud I can hardly hear my own voice. “People just re-gram her.
Or him. Am I talking really loud right now?” I’m in shock.
Now I can’t feel my hands or feet. I’m gonna faint. Is this
happening? Is this my life?
“We have to get this taken down right now. Is there a help
line for inappropriate content? We have to report this!”
Margot’s grabbing the computer from me. She clicks the
REPORT INAPPROPRIATE tab. Scanning the comments on the
page, she seethes, “People are absolute jerks! We might have
to call a lawyer. This won’t get taken down right away.”
“No!” I scream. “I don’t want Daddy to see!”
“Lara Jean, this is serious. You don’t want colleges to
google you and have this video come up! Or, like, future
employers—”
“Gogo! You’re making me feel so much worse right now!”
I grab my phone. Peter. He’ll know what to do. It’s five
o’clock, which means he’s still at lacrosse practice. I can’t
even call him right now. I text instead:
Call me ASAP.
Then I hear Daddy’s voice calling up the staircase. “These
potatoes won’t mash themselves! Who’s helping me?”
Oh my God. Now I have to sit at dinner and look my dad in
the face, knowing that this video exists. This can’t be my life.
Margot and Kitty look at each other, then back at me.
“Nobody says a word to Daddy!” I hiss at them. “That means
you, Kitty!”
She gives me a hurt look. “I know when to keep my mouth
shut.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I mumble. My heart is pounding so hard it’s
giving me a headache. I can’t even think straight.
At dinner, my stomach is churning and I can barely get
down a bite of potatoes. Luckily, I have Margot and Kitty to
run interference and keep a steady chatter going so I don’t
have to talk. I just push the food around on my plate and sneak
Jamie Fox-Pickle bites under the table. As soon as everyone
else is done eating, I sprint upstairs and look at my phone. Still
nothing from Peter. Just more texts from Chris and one from
Haven:
OMG is this you??!
I don’t know who the girl in the video is. I don’t recognize me
in it. It’s not how I see myself at all. It’s like some other
person who has nothing to do with me. I’m not someone who
climbs into hot tubs with boys and sits in their laps and kisses
them passionately with a wet nightgown clinging to them. But
I was that night. The video just doesn’t tell the whole truth.
I keep telling myself it’s not like we’re really having sex in
the video. It’s not like I’m naked. It just feels like I’m naked in
the video. And all I can think is, everybody at school has seen
that video, a video of me in one of the most intimate and truly
romantic moments of my life. And not only that, but someone
recorded it. Someone was there. That memory was supposed
to only be mine and Peters, but now it turns out there was
some random Peeping Tom in the woods there with us. It’s not
just ours anymore. It feels tawdry now. It certainly looks that
way. In the moment I felt free, and adventurous, maybe even
sexy. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt sexy in my whole life.
And now I just want to not exist.
I’m lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, phone at my side.
Margot and Kitty have forbidden me from looking at the
video. They tried to take my phone away, but I told them I
need it for when Peter calls. Then I snuck a look at the video,
and so far there are over a hundred comments, none good.
Kitty’s playing with Jamie Fox-Pickle on the floor and
Margot’s emailing Instagram customer service when Chris
knocks on my window. Margot unlocks it for her, and Chris
climbs inside, shivering and pink-cheeked. “Is she okay?”
“I think she’s in shock,” Kitty says.
“I’m not in shock,” I say. But maybe I am. Maybe this is
shock. It’s a queer, surreal sort of feeling, like I’m numb, but
also all my senses feel heightened.
Margot says to Chris, “Why can’t you come in through the
front door like a normal person?”
“Nobody answered.” Chris yanks off her boots and sits
down on the floor next to Kitty. Petting Jamie, she says,
“Okay, first of all, you can barely tell it’s you. And second of
all, it’s really hot, so there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I mean,
you look great.”
Margot makes a disgusted sound. “That’s so beside the
point I don’t even know where to begin.”
“I’m just being honest! Objectively, it sucks, but also
objectively, Lara Jean looks awesome in it.”
Crawling under my quilt, I say, “I thought you could barely
even tell it was me! I knew I shouldn’t have gone on that ski
trip. I hate hot tubs. Why would I willingly get into a hot tub?”
“Hey, be glad you were in your pajamas,” Chris says. “You
could have been nude!”
My head pops out from under the quilt and I glare at her. “I
would never be nude!”
Chris snorts. “Never nude. Did you know that’s a real
thing? Some people call themselves never-nudes and they
wear clothes at all times, even in the shower. Like, jean
shorts.”
I turn on my side, away from Chris.
The weight of my bed shifts as Margot climbs in. “It’s
going to be fine,” she says, peeling back the blanket. “We’ll
get them to take the video down.”
“It won’t matter,” I say. “Everyone’s already seen it. They
all think I’m a slut.”
Chris’s eyes go narrow. “So are you saying that if a girl has
sex in a hot tub, that makes her a slut?”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying; that’s what other people
are saying.”
“Then what are you saying?” she demands.
I look at Kitty, who’s braiding Chris’s hair in microbraids.
She’s being extra quiet so we forget she’s here and don’t kick
her out. “I think that as long as you’re ready and it’s what you
want to do and you’re protecting yourself, then it’s okay and
you should do what you want to do.”
Margot says, “Society is far too caught up in shaming a
woman for enjoying sex and applauding a man. I mean, all of
the comments are about how Lara Jean is a slut, but nobody’s
saying anything about Peter, and he’s right there with her. It’s
a ridiculous double standard.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
Chris looks down at her phone. “Like, three different
people just texted the video to me as we were sitting here.”
I let out a sob and Margot says, “Chris, that’s not helping.
At all.” To me she says, “If people say anything, just be really
blasé, like it’s beneath you.”
“Or just, like, lean into it,” Chris says.
From behind her Kitty says, “Nobody will say anything to
Lara Jean because she’s Peters girl. That means she’s under
his protection, like on The Sopranos.”
Aghast, Margot says, “Oh my God, you’ve seen The
Sopranos? How have you seen The Sopranos? It’s not even on
TV anymore.”
“I watched it on demand. I’m on season three.”
“Kitty! Stop watching it!” She shuts her eyes and shakes
her head. “Never mind. That’s not what’s important right now.
We’ll talk about it later. Kitty, Lara Jean doesn’t need a boy to
protect her.”
“No, Kitty has a good point,” Chris says. “It’s not about the
fact that Peters a guy. Well, not completely. It’s about the fact
that he’s popular and she isn’t. That’s where the protection
comes into play. No offense, LJ.”
“None taken,” I say. It’s slightly insulting, but it’s also true,
and now isn’t the time for me to get my feelings hurt about
something so miniscule in comparison to a would-be sex tape.
“What did Kavinsky say about it?” Chris asks me.
“Nothing yet. He’s still at lacrosse practice.”
My phone immediately starts to buzz, and the three of us
look at each other, wide-eyed. Margot picks it up and looks at
it. “It’s Peter!” She hot-potatoes the phone to me. “Let’s give
them some privacy,” she says, nudging Chris. Chris shrugs her
off.
I ignore both of them and answer the phone. “Hello.” My
voice comes out thin as a reed.
Peter starts talking fast. “Okay, I’ve seen the video, and the
first thing I’m going to say to you is don’t freak out.” He’s
breathing hard; it sounds like he’s running.
“Don’t freak out? How can I not? This is terrible. Do you
know what they’re all saying about me in the comments? That
I’m a slut. They think we’re having sex in that video, Peter.”
“Never read the comments, Covey! That’s the first rule of
—”
“If you say ‘Fight Club’ to me right now, I will hang up on
you.”
“Sorry. Okay, I know it sucks but—”
“It doesn’t ‘suck.’ It’s a literal nightmare. My most private
moment, for everybody to see. I’m completely humiliated. The
things people are saying—” My voice breaks. Kitty and
Margot and Chris are all looking at me with sad eyes, which
makes me feel even sadder.
“Don’t cry, Lara Jean. Please don’t cry. I promise you I’m
going to fix this. I’m going to get whoever runs Anonybitch to
take it down.”
“How? We don’t even know who they are! And besides, I
bet our whole school’s seen it by now. Teachers, too. I know
for a fact that teachers look at Anonybitch. I was in the faculty
lounge once and I overheard Mr. Filipe and Ms. Ryan saying
how bad it makes our school look. And what about college
admissions boards and our future employers?”
Peter guffaws. “Future employers? Covey, I’ve seen much
worse. Hell, I’ve seen worse pictures of me on there.
Remember that picture of me with my head in a toilet bowl,
and I’m naked?”
I shudder. “I never saw that picture. Besides, that’s you;
that’s not me. I don’t do that kind of stuff.”
“Just trust me, okay? I promise I’ll take care of it.”
I nod, even though I know he can’t see me. Peter is
powerful. If anyone could fix such a thing, it would be him.
“Listen, I’ve gotta go. Coach is gonna kick my ass if he
sees me on the phone. I’ll call you tonight, okay? Don’t go to
sleep.”
I don’t want to hang up. I wish we could talk longer.
“Okay,” I whisper.
When I hang up, Margot, Chris, and Kitty are all three
staring at me.
“Well?” Chris says.
“He says he’ll take care of it.”
Smugly Kitty says, “I told you so.”
“What does that even mean, ‘he’ll take care of it’?” Margot
asks. “He hasn’t exactly proven himself to be responsible.”
“It’s not his fault,” Kitty and I say at the same time.
“Oh, I know exactly who’s responsible for this,” Chris
proclaims. “My she-devil cousin.”
This knocks the wind out of me. “What? Why?”
She gives me an incredulous look. “Because you took her
man!”
“Genevieve’s the one who cheated on Peter. That’s why
they broke up. It wasn’t because of me!”
“Like that matters!” Chris shakes her head. “Come on, Lara
Jean. Remember what she did to Jamila Singh? Telling
everyone that her family had an Indonesian slave just because
she had the balls to date Peter after they broke up? I’m just
saying, I wouldn’t put a bitch move like this past her.”
On the ski trip, Genevieve said she knew about the kiss,
which has to mean that Peter told her about it at some point in
their relationship—though I doubt he told her that he was the
one who kissed me and not the other way around! Even so, I
find it hard to believe that she could do something so cruel to
me. Jamila Singh and Genevieve never liked each other. But
Gen and I were best friends once. Sure, we haven’t talked
much the last few years, but Gen was always loyal to her
friends.
It had to have been one of the guys hanging out in the rec
room, or maybe … I don’t know. Maybe anyone!
“I’ve never trusted her,” Margot says. Then she says to
Chris, “No offense. I know she’s your cousin.”
Chris snorts. “Why would I be offended? I can’t stand her.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s the one who scraped up the side of
Grandma’s car with her bike,” Margot says. “Remember, Lara
Jean?”
It was actually Chris, but I don’t say so. Chris starts biting
her nails and giving me panicky eyes and I say, “I don’t think
Genevieve was the one who posted the video. It could’ve been
anybody who happened to see us that night.”
Margot puts her arm around me. “Don’t worry, Lara Jean.
We’ll get them to take the video down. You’re underage.”
“Pull it up again,” I say. Kitty cues it up and pushes play. I
feel the same sinking feeling in my stomach every time I
watch it. I close my eyes so I don’t have to. Thank God the
only things you can hear are the sounds of the woods and the
hot tub water bubbling. “Is it is it as bad as I’m
remembering? I mean, does it really look like we’re having
sex? Be honest.” I open my eyes.
Margot’s peering at it, head tilted. “No, it really doesn’t. It
just looks like …”
“Like a hot makeout,” Chris supplies.
“Right,” Margot agrees. “Just a hot makeout.”
“You guys swear?”
In unison they say, “We swear.”
“Kitty?” I ask.
She bites her lip. “It looks like sex to me, but I’m the only
one here besides you who’s never had sex, so what do I
know?” Margot lets out a gasp. “Sorry, I read your diary.”
Margot swats at her, and Kitty crawls away fast like a crab.
I take a deep breath. “Okay. I can live with that. I mean,
who cares about a hot makeout, right? That’s just part of life,
right? And you can barely even see my face? You’d have to
really know me to know it was me. My full name isn’t on here
anywhere, just Lara Jean. There must be a ton of Lara Jeans,
right? Right?”
Margot gives me an impressed nod. “I’ve never seen
anybody move through the five stages of grief that fast. You
really do have an incredible bounce-back.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a little proud.
But then in the dark, when my sisters and Chris have left
and Peter and I have said our good nights and he has assured
me for the millionth time that everything will be fine, I look at
Instagram again, at all the comments. And I am mortified.
I asked Peter who he thought could have done it; he said he
didn’t know. Probably just some horny pathetic guy, he said. I
don’t ask the thing I’m still thinking about, the thing that’s still
stuck in my craw. Was it Genevieve? Could she really hate me
so much that she’d want to hurt me that badly?
I remember the day we exchanged friendship bracelets.
“This proves that we’re best friends,” she said to me. “We’re
closer with each other than with anyone else.”
“What about Allie?” I asked. We’d always been a trio,
though Genevieve had taken to spending more time at my
house, mainly because Allie’s mom was strict about boys
coming over and being on the Internet.
“Allie’s okay but I like you better,” she’d said, and I had
felt guilty but honored. Genevieve liked me best. We were
close, closer than with anyone else. The bracelets were proof.
How cheaply I was bought then, with just a bracelet made out
of string.
7
THE NEXT MORNING I DRESS for school with special care.
Chris said I should lean into it, which would mean a look-at-
me kind of outfit. Margot said I should be above it all, which
means something mature like a pencil skirt or maybe my green
corduroy blazer. But my instinct is to blend, blend, blend. Big
sweater that’s more like a blanket. Leggings, Margot’s brown
boots. If I could wear a baseball cap to school, I would, but no
hats allowed.
I make myself a bowl of Cheerios with sliced banana on
top, but I can only force down a few bites. I’m too nervous.
Margot notices and slips a cashew bar in my bag for later. I’m
lucky that she’s still here to take such good care of me. She’ll
be heading back to Scotland tomorrow.
Daddy feels my forehead. “Are you sick? You barely had
any dinner last night either.”
I shake my head. “Probably just cramps. My period’s
coming soon.” I have only to say the magic word, “period,”
and I know he won’t push it further.
“Ah,” he says with a sage nod. “After you get some food in
your stomach, take two ibuprofen so you have it in your
system.”
“Got it,” I say. I feel bad for the lie, but it’s a tiny one, and
it’s for his own good. He can never know about that video, not
ever.
Peter pulls up in front of our house right on time for once.
He’s really sticking to our contract. Margot walks me to the
door and says, “Just hold your head up high, all right? You
haven’t done anything wrong.”
As soon as I get in the car, Peter leans over and kisses me
on the mouth, which still feels surprising somehow. I’m taken
off guard, so I accidentally cough into his mouth a little.
“Sorry,” I say.
“No worries,” he says, smooth as ever. He places his arm
on the back of my seat as he puts the car in reverse; then he
tosses me his phone. “Check Anonybitch.”
I open up his Instagram and go to Anonybitch’s page. I see
the entry that was below ours, a picture of a passed-out guy
with penises permanent-markered all over his face. It’s the top
of the feed now. I gasp. The hot tub video is gone! “Peter, how
did you do this?”
Peter grins a peacocky kind of grin. “I messaged
Anonybitch last night and told them to take that shit down or
we’re suing. I told them how my uncle is a lawyer and you and
I are both underage.” He gives my knee a squeeze.
“Is your uncle really a lawyer?”
“No. He owns a pizza parlor in New Jersey.” We both
laugh, and it feels like such a relief. “Listen, don’t worry about
anything today. If anybody says anything, I’ll kick their ass.”
“I just wish I knew who did it. I could’ve sworn we were
alone that night.”
Peter shakes his head. “It’s not like we did anything so
wrong! I mean, who cares if we made out in a damn hot tub?
Who cares if we had sex in it?” I frown and he quickly says, “I
know, I know. You don’t want people thinking we did
something when we didn’t. We definitely didn’t, and that’s
what I told that bitch Anonybitch.”
“It’s different for guys and girls, Peter.”
“I know. Don’t be mad. I’m going to find out who did this.”
He looks straight ahead, so serious and unlike himself; his
profile is almost noble for all its good intent.
Oh, Peter, why do you have to be so handsome! If you
weren’t so handsome I never would have gotten in that hot tub
with you. It’s all your fault. Except it isn’t. I’m the one who
took off my shoes and socks and got in. I wanted it too. I just
appreciate that he’s taking it as seriously as he is, writing
emails on our behalf. I know this is the kind of thing that
Genevieve wouldn’t care about; she never had a problem with
PDAs or being the center of attention. But I care, I care a lot.
He turns his head and looks at me, studying my eyes, my
face. “You don’t regret it, do you, Lara Jean?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” He smiles at me so sweetly
I can’t help but smile back. “Thanks for getting them to take
the video down for me.”
“Us,” Peter corrects. “I did it for us.” He links our fingers
together. “It’s you and me, kid.”
I tighten my fingers around his. If we just hold on tight
enough, it will all be okay.
When we walk down the hall together, girls whisper. Boys
snicker. One guy from the lacrosse team runs up and tries to
high-five Peter, who swats him away with a growl.
Lucas comes up to me when I’m alone at my locker trading
out my books. “I’m not going to mince words,” he says. “I’m
just going to ask. Is the girl in the video really you?”
I take deep, calming breath. “It’s me.”
Lucas lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“So … did you guys …”
“No, we definitely did not. We are not.”
“Why not?”
I’m embarrassed by the question, though I know there’s no
reason for me to be. It’s just that I’ve never been in a position
to talk about my sex life before, because who would ever have
thought to ask me anything? “We aren’t because we aren’t.
There’s no big reason behind it, other than I’m not ready yet
and I don’t know if he is either. We haven’t even talked about
it.”
“Well, it’s not like he’s a virgin. Not by any stretch of the
imagination.” Lucas makes his cerulean blue angel eyes go
wide for emphasis. “I know you’re innocent, Lara Jean, but
Kavinsky definitely isn’t. I’m saying this to you as a guy.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” I say, even
though I’ve wondered and worried about this myself. Peter
and I had a conversation about this once, about whether a guy
and a girl who’d dated for a long time were automatically
having sex, but I don’t remember if he ever said what his take
on it was. I should have listened harder. “Look, just because he
and Genevieve did it like like wild rabbits or whatever—”
Lucas snickers at this, and I pinch him. “Just because they did
it doesn’t mean we automatically are, or that he automatically
even wants to.” Does it?
“He definitely wants to.”
Gulp. “Well, too bad, so sad, if that’s the case. But honestly,
I don’t think it is.” In this very moment I decide that Peter and
I will be the relationship equivalent of a brisket. Slow and low.
We will heat up for each other over time. Confidently I say,
“What Peter and I have is completely different than what he
and Genevieve were. Or had. Whatever. The point is, you
shouldn’t compare relationships, okay?” Never mind the fact
that I’ve been doing that constantly in my head.
In French class, I hear Emily Nussbaum whisper to Genevieve,
“If it turns out she’s preggo, do you think Kavinsky will pay
for the abortion?”
Genevieve whispers back, “No way. He’s too cheap. Maybe
half.” And everyone laughs.
My face burns in mortification. I want to scream at them,
We didn’t have sex! We are brisket! But that would only give
them more satisfaction, to know they’re getting a rise out of
me. That’s what Margot would say anyway. So I hold my chin
up even higher, as high as I can, so high my neck hurts.
Maybe Gen did do it. Maybe she really does hate me that
much.
Ms. Davenport grabs me on my way to my next class. She
puts her arm around me and says, “Lara Jean, how are you
holding up?”
I know she doesn’t care about me, not really. She just wants
gossip. She’s the biggest gossip of all the teachers, maybe
even the students. Well, I’m not going to be faculty-lounge
fodder. “I’m great,” I say sunnily. Chin up, chin up.
“I saw the video,” she whispers, eyes darting around to see
if anyone’s listening. “Of you and Peter in the hot tub.”
My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth hurt.
“You must be really upset about the comments, and I don’t
blame you.” Ms. Davenport really needs to get a life if all
she’s doing over her winter break is looking at high school
kids’ Instagrams! “Kids can be very cruel. Trust me, I know
this from personal experience. I’m not that much older than
you guys.”
“I’m really fine, but thanks for checking in.” Nothing to see
here, folks. Keep it moving.
Ms. Davenport’s lower lip pushes out. “Well, if you need to
talk to someone, you know I’m here for you. Let me be a
resource. Come hang out with me anytime; I’ll write you a
note.”
“Thank you, Ms. Davenport.” I slither out of from under
her arm.
Mrs. Duvall, the guidance/college counselor stops me on
my way to English. “Lara Jean,” she begins, then falters.
“You’re such a bright, talented girl. You’re not the type of girl
to get caught up in these sorts of things. I’d hate to see you go
down a wrong path.”
I can feel tears coming up the back of my throat, pushing
their way to the surface. I respect Mrs. Duvall. I want her to
think well of me. All I can do is nod.
She tips my chin up tenderly. Her perfume smells like dried
rose petals. She’s an older woman; she’s worked at the school
forever. Mrs. Duvall really cares about the students. She is the
one kids come back and say hi to when they’re home from
college for winter break. “Now is the time to buckle down and
get serious about your future, not high school drama. Don’t
give colleges a reason to turn you down, okay?”
Again I nod.
“Good girl,” she says. “I know you’re better than that.”
The words echo in my ears: Better than that. Better than
what? Than who?
During lunch, I escape to the girls’ bathroom so I don’t have to
speak to anybody. And of course there Genevieve is, standing
in front of the mirror, dabbing on lip balm. Her eyes meet
mine in the mirror. “Hi there.” It’s the way she says it—hi
there. So smug, so sure of herself.
“Was it you?” My voice echoes against the walls.
Genevieve’s hand goes still. Then she recovers, and screws
the top back on her lip balm. “Was what me?”
“Did you send that video to Anonybitch?”
“No,” she scoffs. Her mouth turns up to the right, the
smallest of quivers. That’s when I know she’s lying. I’ve seen
her lie to her mom enough times to know her tell. Even though
I suspected it, maybe even knew it deep down, this
confirmation takes my breath away.
“I know we’re not friends anymore, but we used to be. You
know my sisters, my dad. You know me. You knew how much
this would hurt me.” I clench my fists to keep from crying.
“How could you do something like this?”
“Lara Jean, I’m sorry this happened to you, but it honestly
wasn’t me.” She gives me a pseudosympathetic shrug, and
there it is again: The corner of her mouth turns up.
“It was you. I know it was. Once Peter finds out …”
She raises one eyebrow. “He’ll what? Kick my ass?”
I’m so angry my hands shake. “No, because you’re a girl.
But he won’t forgive you either. I’m glad you did it if it proves
to him what kind of person you really are.”
“He knows exactly what kind of person I am. And you
know what? He still loves me more than he’ll ever like you.
You’ll see.” With that she turns on her heel and walks away.
This is when it dawns on me. She’s jealous. Of me. She
can’t stand that Peters with me and not her. Well, she just
played herself, because once Peter finds out she’s the one who
did this to us, he’ll never look at her the same way again.
When school lets out, I race to the parking lot, where Peter is
in his car waiting for me with the heat on. As soon as I open
the passenger side door, I gasp out, “It was Genevieve!” I
scramble inside. “She’s the one who sent the video to
Anonybitch. She just admitted it to me!”
Soberly he asks me, “She said she took the video? She said
those exact words?”
“Well no.” What were her exact words? I walked away
feeling like she’d confessed, but now that I’m going over it in
my head, she never out-and-out admitted it. “She didn’t admit
it per se, but she practically did. Also, she did that thing with
her mouth!” I turn up the corner of my mouth. “See? That’s
her tell!”
He raises an eyebrow. “Come on, Covey.”
“Peter!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to her.” He starts the car.
I’m pretty sure I know the answer to this question, but I
have to ask. “Have any teachers said anything to you about the
video? Maybe Coach White?”
“No. Why? Has anyone said anything to you?”
This is what Margot was talking about, this double
standard. Boys will be boys, but girls are supposed to be
careful: of our bodies, of our futures, of all the ways people
judge us. Abruptly I ask him, “When are you going to talk to
Genevieve?”
“I’ll go over there tonight.”
“You’re going over to her house?” I repeat.
“Well, yeah. I have to see her face to know whether she’s
lying or not. I’ll check out this ‘tell’ you’re so excited about.”
Peters starving, so we stop and get hamburgers and
milkshakes on the way. When I finally get home, Margot and
Kitty are waiting for me. “Tell us everything,” Margot says,
handing me a cup of cocoa. I check to see if she’s put mini
marshmallows inside, and she has.
“Did Peter fix it?” Kitty wants to know.
“Yes! He got Anonybitch to take the video down. He told
them how he has an uncle who’s a top lawyer, when in
actuality he owns a pizza parlor in New Jersey.”
Margot smiles at this. Then her face gets serious. “Were
people horrible at school?”
Blithely I say, “Nah, it wasn’t bad at all.” I feel a swell of
pride for putting on a brave face in front of my sisters. “But
I’m pretty sure I know who did it.”
In unison they say, “Who?”
“Genevieve, just like Chris said. I confronted her in the
bathroom and she denied it, but then she did that thing she
does with her mouth when she’s lying.” I demonstrate for
them. “Gogo, do you remember that thing?”
“I think so!” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t. “What did
Peter say when you told him it was Genevieve? He believed
you, right?”
“Not exactly,” I hedge, blowing on my hot cocoa. “I mean,
he says he’s going to talk to her and get down to the bottom of
it.”
Margot frowns. “He should have your back no matter
what.”
“He does, Gogo!” I grab her hand and link my fingers
through hers. “This is what he did. He said, ‘It’s you and me,
kid.’ It was really romantic!”
She giggles. “You’re hopeless. Don’t ever change.”
“I wish you weren’t leaving tomorrow,” I sigh. I’m
homesick for her already. Margot being here, making
judgments and doling out sage advice, makes me feel secure.
It gives me strength.
“Lara Jean, you’ve got this,” she says, and I listen hard,
look hard for any doubt or falseness in her, any hint that she’s
only saying it to bolster me. But there is none. Only
confidence.
8
IT’S MARGOT’S LAST DINNER BEFORE she leaves for
Scotland tomorrow. Daddy makes Korean short ribs and
potatoes au gratin from scratch. He even bakes a lemon cake.
He says, “It’s been so gray and cold; I think we’re all due a
little sunshine by way of lemon cake.” Then he puts an arm
around my waist and pats my side, and though he isn’t asking,
I know he knows there’s something up with me that’s a lot
bigger than my period.
We’ve barely had a chance to put our forks to our lips
before Daddy’s asking, “Does this galbi jjim taste like
Grandma’s?”
“Basically,” I say. Daddy’s mouth turns down and I quickly
add, “I mean, it might even be better.”
“I tenderized the meat the way she said,” Daddy says. “But
it’s not falling right off the bone the way hers does, you know?
You shouldn’t even need a knife to eat galbi jjim if it’s
prepared correctly.” Margot was sawing away at a piece of
meat with her steak knife, and she stops short. “The first time I
ever had it was with your mom. She took me to a Korean
restaurant on our first date and ordered everything for us in
Korean and told me about each dish. I was so in awe of her
that night. My one regret is that you girls didn’t keep up with
Korean school.” The corners of his mouth turn down for just a
moment, and then he’s smiling again. “Eat up, girls.”
“Daddy, UVA has a Korean language program,” I say. “If I
get in, I’m definitely going to take Korean.”
“Your mom would’ve loved that,” he says, and he gets that
sad look in his eyes again.
Swiftly Margot says, “The galbi jjim is delicious, Daddy.
They don’t have good Korean food in Scotland.”
“Pack some seaweed to take back with you,” Daddy
suggests. “And some of that ginseng tea Grandma brought us
back from Korea. You should take the rice cooker too.”
Kitty frowns. “Then how will we have rice?”
“We can buy a new one.” Dreamily he says, “What I’d
really love to do is take a family vacation there. How great
would that be? Your mom always wanted to take you girls on a
trip to Korea. You still have a lot of family there.”
“Could Grandma come with us?” Kitty asks. She keeps
sneaking bites of meat to Jamie, who sits on his hind legs,
looking at us with hopeful eyes.
Daddy nearly chokes on a bite of potatoes. “That’s a great
idea,” he manages. “She’d be a good tour guide.”
Margot and I exchange a little smile. Grandma would drive
Daddy crazy after a week. What I’m excited about is the
shopping. “Oh my gosh, just think of all the stationery,” I say.
“And clothes. And hair pins. BB cream. I should make a list.”
“Daddy, you could take a Korean cooking class,” Margot
suggests.
“Yeah! Let’s think about it for the summer,” Daddy says.
He’s already getting excited, I can tell. “Depending on
everyone’s schedules, of course. Margot, you’re going to be
here all summer, right?” That’s what she was saying last week.
She looks down at her plate. “I’m not sure. Nothing’s been
decided yet.” Daddy looks puzzled, and Kitty and I exchange a
look. For sure this has to do with Josh, and I don’t blame her.
“There’s a chance I could get an internship at the Royal
Anthropological Institute in London.”
“But I thought you said you wanted to go back to work at
Montpelier,” Daddy says, his forehead creased in confusion.
“I’m still figuring things out. Like I said, I haven’t decided
anything yet.”
Kitty interjects. “If you do the royal internship, would you
get to meet any royal people?”
I roll my eyes, and Margot throws her a grateful look and
says, “I doubt it, Kitten, but you never know.”
“What about you, Lara Jean?” Kitty asks, innocent and
round-eyed. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing stuff this
summer to look good for colleges?”
I shoot her a dirty look. “I’ve got plenty of time to figure
things out.” Under the table I pinch her hard, and she yelps.
“You were supposed to be looking for an internship for this
spring,” Margot reminds me. “I’m telling you, Lara Jean, if
you don’t act fast, all the good internships will be gone. Also
have you emailed Noni yet about SAT tutoring? See if she’s
doing summer school or if she’s going home for the summer.”
“All right, all right. I will.”
“I might be able to get you a job at the hospital gift shop,”
Daddy offers. “We could ride to work together, have lunch
together. It would be fun hanging out all day with your old
man!”
“Daddy, don’t you have any friends at work?” Kitty asks.
“Do you sit by yourself at lunch?”
“Well, no, not every day. Sometimes I suppose I do eat
alone at my desk, but that’s because I don’t have much time to
eat. If Lara Jean worked at the gift shop, I’d make time,
though.” He taps his chopsticks on his plate absentmindedly.
“There might also be a job for her at the McDonald’s, but I’d
have to see.”
Kitty pipes up, “Hey, if you got a job at McDonald’s, I bet
they’d let you eat fries as much as you want.”
I frown. I can see a preview into my summer, and I’m not
liking what I’m seeing. “I don’t want to work at McDonald’s.
And no offense, Daddy, but I don’t want to work at the gift
shop, either.” I think fast. “I’ve been thinking about doing
something more official at Belleview. Maybe I could be the
activities directors intern. Or assistant. Margot, which sounds
more impressive?”
“Assistant activities director,” Margot says.
“That does sound more professional,” I agree. “I’ve got a
lot of ideas. Maybe I’ll stop by this week and pitch them to
Janette.”
“Like what?” Daddy asks me.
“A scrapbooking class,” I improvise. “They have so many
pictures and tokens and things that they’ve collected, I think
it’d be good to bind it all up in a book so nothing gets lost.”
Suddenly I’m on a roll. “And then maybe we could have a
little exhibit, with all of the scrapbooks on display, and people
can flip through them and see their life stories. I could make
cheese puffs, there could be white wine …”
“That’s an amazing idea,” Margot says with an approving
nod.
“Really great,” Daddy enthuses. “Obviously no white wine
for you, but the cheese puffs, definitely!”
“Oh, Daddy,” we all chorus, because he loves it when we
do that, when he gets to be the cheesy dad (pun intended!) and
we all groan like we’re exasperated and say “Oh, Daddy.”
When we’re doing the dishes, Margot tells me I should
follow up with the Belleview idea for sure. “They need
someone like you to take charge of things,” she says, sudsing
up the Dutch oven. “Fresh energy, new ideas. People can get
burned out working at a retirement home. Janette will be
relieved to have an extra set of hands.”
I mostly said all that stuff about Belleview to get everybody
off my back, but now I’m thinking I really should talk to
Janette.
When I go back upstairs, I have a missed call from Peter. I call
him back, and I can hear the TV on in the background. “Did
you talk to her?” I hope hope hope he believes me now.
“I talked to her.”
My heart thuds. “And? Did she admit it?”
“No.”
“No.” I let out a breath. Okay. That was to be expected, I
guess. Gen isn’t the type to lie down in the street and die.
She’s a fighter. “Well, she can say whatever she wants, but I
know it was her.”
“You can’t get all that from a look, Covey.”
“It’s not just a look. I know her. She used to be my best
friend. I know how she thinks.”
“I know her better than you, and I’m telling you, I don’t
think it was her. Trust me.”
He does know her better; of course he does. But girl to girl,
ex–best friend to ex–best friend, I know it was her. I don’t care
how many years it’s been. There are things a girl knows in her
gut, her bones. “I trust you. I don’t trust her. This is all her
plan, Peter.”
There’s a long silence, and I hear my last words ringing in
my ears, and they sound crazy, even to me.
His voice is heavy with patience as he says, “She’s stressed
out with family stuff right now; she doesn’t even have time to
plot against you, Covey.”
Family stuff? Could that be? I feel a pang of guilt as I
remember how Chris mentioned that their grandma broke her
hip and the families were discussing whether or not to put her
into a home. Genevieve was always close to her grandma; she
said she was the favorite out of all the grandchildren because
she looked just like her—i.e., gorgeous.
Or maybe it’s her parents. Genevieve used to worry about
them getting divorced.
Or maybe it’s all a lie. It’s on the very tip of my tongue to
say, and then he says, wearily, “My mom’s calling me
downstairs. Can we talk about this more tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I say.
I mean, I guess it could be anything. Peters right. Maybe I
knew her well once, but not anymore. Peter is the one who
knows her best now. And besides, isn’t this the way one loses
boyfriends, by acting paranoid and jealous and insecure? I’m
fairly certain this is not a good look on me.
After we hang up I resolve to put the video behind me once
and for all. What’s done is done. I have a boyfriend, a possible
new job (unpaid, I’m sure, but still), and my studies to think
about. I can’t let this bring me down. Besides, you can’t even
see my face in the video.
9
THE NEXT MORNING BEFORE SCHOOL, we’re packing up
the car so Daddy can take Margot to the airport, and I keep
looking up at Josh’s bedroom window, wondering if he’ll
come down and say good-bye. It’s the least he can do. But his
lights are off, so he must still be asleep.
Ms. Rothschild comes out with her dog while Margot’s
saying her good-byes to Jamie Fox-Pickle. As soon as he sees
her, he leaps out of Margot’s arms and makes a run for it
across the street. Daddy chases after him. Jamie is barking and
jumping all over Ms. Rothschild’s poor old dog Simone, who
ignores him. Jamie is so excited he pees on Ms. Rothschild’s
green Hunter boots, and Daddy’s apologizing, but she’s
laughing. “It’ll wash right off,” I hear her say. She looks
pretty, her brown hair is in a high ponytail, and she’s in yoga
pants and a puffy bomber jacket that I think Genevieve has.
“Hurry, Daddy!” Margot calls out. “I need to be at the
airport three hours early.”
“Three’s a bit much,” I say. “Two hours is plenty.” We
watch as Daddy tries to scoop up Jamie and Jamie tries to
wriggle away. Ms. Rothschild snatches him up with one arm
and plants a kiss on his head.
“With international flights you’re supposed to be at the
airport three hours early. I have bags to check¸ Lara Jean.”
Kitty doesn’t say anything; she’s just gazing across the
street at all the dog drama.
When Daddy returns with a squirming Jamie in his arms, he
says, “We’d better get out of here before Jamie causes any
more trouble.” We three hug each other fiercely, and Margot
whispers to me to be strong, and I nod, and then she and
Daddy are gone for the airport.
It’s still early, earlier than we would’ve woken up on a
school morning, so I make Kitty and me banana pancakes.
She’s still lost in thought. Twice I have to ask her if she wants
one pancake or two. I make a few extra and wrap them in
aluminum foil to share with Peter on the way to school. I do
the dishes; I even send Janette over at Belleview a feeler
email, and she writes back right away. Margot’s replacement
quit a month ago, so it’s perfect timing, she says. Come in on
Saturday and we’ll talk about your responsibilities.
I feel like finally, I’ve gotten it together: I’ve hit my stride.
I can do this.
So when I walk into school that cold January morning,
holding Peters hand, full on banana pancakes, with a new job
and wearing Margot’s Fair Isle sweater she left behind, I am
feeling good. Great, even.
Peter wants to stop in the computer lab to print out his
English paper, so that’s our first stop. He logs in, and I gasp
out loud when I see the wallpaper.
Someone has taken a still of the hot tub video, of me in
Peters lap in my red flannel nightgown, skirt hitched up
around my thighs, and across the top it reads HOT HOT TUB SEX.
And on the bottom—YOU’RE DOING IT WRONG.
“What the hell?” Peter mutters, looking around the
computer lab. Nobody looks up. He goes to the next computer
—same picture, different caption. SHE DOESN’T KNOW ABOUT
SHRINKAGE on top. HE’S HAPPY WITH WHAT HE CAN GET across the
bottom.
We are a meme.
Over the next couple of days, the picture shows up all over the
place. On other people’s Instagrams, on their Facebook walls.
There’s one with a dancing shark photoshopped in. Another
one where our heads have been replaced by cat heads.
And then one that just says AMISH BIKINI.
Peters lacrosse friends think it’s hilarious, but they swear
they don’t have anything to do with it. At the lunch table Gabe
protests, “I don’t even know how to use Photoshop!”
Peter stuffs half his sandwich into his mouth. “Fine, then
who’s doing it? Jeff Bardugo? Carter?”
“Dude, I don’t know,” Darrell says. “It’s a meme. A lot of
people could be throwing their hat in the ring.”
“You have to admit, the cat-head one was pretty funny,”
Gabe says. Then he turns to me and says, “My bad, Large.”
I stay quiet. The cat heads were kind of funny. But overall it
is not. Peter tried to laugh the first one off, but now we are a
few days in and I can tell it’s bothering him. He isn’t used to
being the butt of the joke. I suppose I’m not either, but only
because I’m not used to people paying this much attention to
anything I’m doing. But ever since I’ve been with Peter,
people are, and I wish they weren’t.
10
THAT AFTERNOON, WE HAVE A junior class assembly in
the auditorium. Our class president, Reena Patel, is onstage
giving a PowerPoint presentation on the state of the union—
how much money we’ve fund-raised for prom, the proposal
for senior class trip. I’m sitting low in my seat, relieved for the
respite, where people aren’t looking at me, whispering and
making judgments.
She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me
So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and
Peters, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the
video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own
soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down
on Peters lap at triple speed to the beat.
Oh no no no no. Please, no.
Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and
laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is
jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peters running
onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s
hand.
“Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s
anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have
sex in the hot tub.”
My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their
seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at
Peter.
“All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior
class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but
Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up
high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick
their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering
and laughing. Peters being frog-marched off the stage, and he
frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me.
The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out
the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me,
face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was
crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!”
I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and
Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and
everyone saw. Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who
doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss
of my life and everybody saw.
Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I
nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did
it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head
back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks
for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like,
wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops
short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Everybody saw us.”
“Yeah that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork.
She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto
Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s
such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though.
Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry.
No guy has ever set the record straight for me.”
I know she’s thinking of that boy from freshman year, the
one who told everyone that Chris had sex with him in the
locker room. And I’m thinking of Mrs. Duvall, of what she
said before. She would probably lump Chris in with the party
girls, the girls who sleep around, the girls who aren’t “better
than that.” She would be wrong. We’re all the same.
After school, I’m walking out of class when my phone buzzes
in my purse. It’s Peter.
I’m out on parole. Meet me at my car!
I race to the parking lot, where Peter is in his car waiting
for me with the heat on. Grinning at me, he says, “Aren’t you
going to kiss your man? I just got released from prison.”
“Peter! This isn’t a joke. Are you suspended?”
He smirks. “Nah. I sweet-talked my way out of it. Principal
Lochlan loves me. Still, I could’ve been. If it had been
anybody else …”
Oh, Peter. “Please don’t brag to me right now.”
“When I came out of Lochlan’s office, there were a bunch
of sophomore girls waiting for me to give me a standing O.
They were like, ‘Kavinsky, you’re so romantic.’” He hoots,
and I give him a look. He pulls me to his side. “Hey, they
know I’m taken. There’s only one girl I want to see in an
Amish bikini.”
I laugh; I can’t help it. Peter loves attention, and I hate to be
another girl who gives it to him, but he makes it really hard
sometimes. Besides, it was kind of romantic.
He plants a kiss on my cheek, nuzzles against my face.
“Didn’t I tell you I would take care of it, Covey?”
“You did,” I admit, patting his hair.
“So did I do a good job?”
“You did.” That’s all it takes for him to be happy, me telling
him that he did a good job. He’s smiley all the way home. But
I’m still thinking about it.
I beg off the lacrosse party I was supposed to go to with
Peter tonight. I say it’s because I have to prepare for my
meeting with Janette tomorrow, but we both know it’s more
than that. He could call me on it, remind me that we promised
to always tell the truth to each other, but he doesn’t. He knows
me well enough to know that I just need to burrow in my little
hobbit hole for a while, and when I’m ready, I’ll come out
again and be all right.
That night I bake chai sugar cookies with cinnamon-eggnog
icing—they’re like a hug in your mouth. Baking calms me; it’s
stabilizing. It’s what I do when I don’t want to think about
anything hard. It is an activity that requires very little from
you—you just follow the directions, and then at the end you
have created something. From ingredients to an actual dessert.
It’s like magic. Poof, deliciousness.
After midnight, I’ve set the cookies on the cooling rack and
put on my cat pajamas, and I’m climbing into bed to read
when there’s a knock at my window. I think it’s Chris, and I go
to the window to check and see if I’ve locked it, but it’s not—
it’s Peter! I push the window up. “Oh my God, Peter! What are
you doing here?” I whisper, my heart pounding. “My dad’s
home!”
Peter climbs in. He’s wearing a navy beanie on his head and
a thermal with a puffy vest. Taking off the hat, he grins and
says, “Shh. You’re gonna wake him up.”
I run to my door and lock it. “Peter! You can’t be here!” I
am equal parts panicky and excited. I don’t know if a boy has
ever been in my room before, not since Josh, and that was ages
ago.
He’s already taking off his shoes. “Just let me stay for a few
minutes.”
I cross my arms because I’m not wearing a bra and say, “If
it’s only a few minutes, why are you taking off your shoes?”
He dodges this question. Plopping down on my bed, he
says, “Hey, why aren’t you wearing your Amish bikini? It’s so
hot.” I move to slap him upside the head, and he grabs my
waist and hugs me to him. He buries his head in my stomach
like a little boy. His voice muffled, he says, “I’m sorry all this
is happening because of me.”
I touch the top of his head; his hair feels soft and silky
against my fingers. “It’s okay, Peter. I know it’s not your
fault.” I glance at my moonbeam alarm clock. “You can stay
for fifteen minutes, but then you have to go.” Peter nods and
releases me. I sink down on the bed next to him and put my
head on his shoulder. I hope the minutes go slow. “How was
the party?”
“Boring without you.”
“Liar.”
He laughs an easy kind of laugh. “What did you bake
tonight?”
“How do you know I baked?”
Peter breathes me in. “You smell like sugar and butter.”
“Chai sugar cookies with eggnog icing.”
“Can I take some with me?”
I nod, and we lean our backs against the wall. He slides his
arm around me, safe and secure. “Twelve minutes left,” I say
into his shoulder, and I feel rather than see him smile.
“Then let’s make it good.” We start to kiss, and I’ve
definitely never kissed a boy in my bed before. This is brand-
new. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of my bed the same way
again. Between kisses he says, “How much time do I have
left?”
I glance over at my clock. “Seven minutes.” Maybe I
should tack on an extra five …
“Can we lie down, then?” he suggests.
I shove him in the shoulder. “Peter!”
“I just want to hold you for a little bit! If I was going to try
to do more, I’d need more than seven minutes, trust me.”
So we lie down, my back to his chest, him curved around
me, his arms slung around mine. He snuggles his chin into the
hollow between my neck and my shoulder. It might be my
favorite thing we’ve ever done. I like it so much I have to keep
reminding myself to be vigilant that we don’t fall asleep. I
want to close my eyes but I keep them trained on my clock.
“Spooning’s the freaking best,” he sighs, and I wish he
didn’t say it, because it makes me think of how many times he
must have held Genevieve just like this.
At the fifteen-minute mark, I sit up so fast he jumps. I clap
him on the shoulder. “Time to go, buddy.”
His mouth falls into a sulk. “Come on, Covey!”
I shake my head, resolute.
If you hadn’t made me think of Genevieve, I would’ve given
you five minutes more.
After I send Peter off with a bag of cookies, I lie back down
and close my eyes and imagine his arms are still around me,
and that’s how I fall asleep.
11
I GO TO JANETTE’S OFFICE at Belleview the next day,
armed with my notebook and my pen. “I had an idea for a craft
class. ‘Scrapbooking to the Oldies.’” Janette nods at me and I
continue. “I can teach the residents how to scrapbook, and
we’ll go through all their old photos and mementos and listen
to oldies.”
“That sounds great,” she says.
“So I could run that class and also I could take on Friday
night cocktail hour?”
Janette takes a bite of her tuna-fish sandwich and swallows.
“We might cut the cocktail hour altogether.”
“Cut it?” I repeat in disbelief.
She shrugs. “Attendance has been waning ever since we
started offering a computer class. The residents have figured
out Netflix. It’s a whole new world out there.”
“What if we made it more of an event? Like, more
special?”
“We don’t really have the budget for anything fancy, Lara
Jean. I’m sure Margot’s told you how we have to make do
around here. Our budget’s tiny.”
“No, no, it could be really DIY stuff. Just simple little
touches will make all the difference. Like we could make a
jacket mandatory for the men. And couldn’t we borrow
glassware from the dining room instead of using plastic cups?”
Janette is still listening, so I keep on going. “Why serve
peanuts right out of the can, when we can put them in a nice
bowl, right?”
“Peanuts taste like peanuts no matter the receptacle.”
“They’d taste more elegant served out of a crystal bowl.”
I’ve said too much. Janette is thinking this all sounds like
too much trouble, I can tell. She says, “We don’t have crystal
bowls, Lara Jean.”
“I’m sure I can scrounge one up at home,” I assure her.
“It sounds like a lot of work for every Friday night.”
“Well—maybe it could just be once a month. That would
make it feel even more special. Why don’t we take a little
hiatus and bring it back in full force in a month or so?” I
suggest. “We can give people a chance to miss it. Build the
anticipation and then really do it right.” Janette nods a
begrudging nod, and before she can change her mind I say,
“Think of me as your assistant, Janette. Leave it all to me. I’ll
take care of everything.”
She shrugs. “Have at it.”
Chris and I are hanging out in my room that afternoon when
Peter calls. “I’m driving by your house,” he says. “Wanna do
something?”
“No!” Chris shouts into the phone. “She’s busy.”
He groans into my ear.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Chris is over.”
He says he’ll call me later, and I’ve barely set down the
phone when Chris grouses, “Please don’t become one of those
girls who gets in a relationship and goes MIA.”
I’m very familiar with “those girls,” because Chris
disappears every time she meets a new guy. Before I can
remind her of this, she goes on. “And don’t be one of those lax
groupies either. I fucking hate those groupies. Like, can’t they
find a better thing to be a groupie for? Like a band? Oh my
God, I would be so good at being a groupie for an actual,
important band. Like being a muse, you know?”
“What happened to that idea about you starting your own
band?”
Chris shrugs. “The guy who plays bass fucked up his hand
skateboarding and then nobody felt like it anymore. Hey, do
you want to drive to DC tomorrow night and see this band Felt
Tip? Frank’s borrowing his dad’s van, so there’s probably
room.”
I have no idea who Frank is, and Chris has probably only
known him for all of two minutes. She always says people’s
names like I should already know who they are. “I can’t—
tomorrow’s a school night.”
She makes a face. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking
about. You’re already becoming one of ‘those girls.’”
“That has nothing to do with it, Chris. A, my dad would
never let me go to DC on a school night. B, I don’t know who
Frank is, and I’m not riding in the back of his van. C, I have a
feeling Felt Tip is not my kind of music. Is it my kind of
music?”
“No,” she admits. “Fine, but the next thing I ask you to do,
you have to say yes. None of this A-B-C ‘here are all of the
reasons why’ bullshit.”
“All right,” I agree, though my stomach does a little lurch,
because with Chris you never know what you’re getting
yourself into. Though, also knowing Chris, she’s already
forgotten about it.
We settle onto the floor and get down to the business of
manis. Chris grabs one of my gold nail pens and starts painting
tiny stars on her thumbnail. I’m doing a lavender base and
dark purple flowers with marigold centers. “Chris, will you do
my initials on my right hand?” I hold up my hand for her.
“Starting with the ring finger down to my thumb. LJSC.
“Fancy font or basic?”
I give her a look. “Come on. Who are you talking to here?”
At the same time we both say, “Fancy.”
Chris is good with doing script. So good, in fact, that as I’m
admiring her handiwork, I say, “Hey, I have an idea. What if
we started doing manicures at Belleview? The residents would
love that.”
“For how much?”
“For free! You could think of it like community service but
not mandatory. Out of the goodness of your heart. Some of the
residents can’t cut their own nails very well. Their hands get
really gnarled. Toes, too. The nails get thick and …” I trail off
when I see the disgusted look on her face. “Maybe we could
have a tip jar.”
“I’m not going to cut old people’s toenails for free. I’m not
doing it for less than fifty bucks a set at the very least. I’ve
seen my grandpa’s feet; his toenails are like eagle talons.” She
gets back to my thumb, giving me a beautiful cursive C with a
flourish. “Done. God, I’m good.” She throws her head back
and yells, “Kitty! Get your booty in here!”
Kitty comes running into my room. “What? I was in the
middle of something.”
“‘I was in the middle of something,’” Chris mimics. “If you
go get me a Diet Coke, I’ll do your nails for you like I did
Lara Jean’s.” I display my hands lavishly like a hand model.
Chris counts with her fingers. “Kitty Covey fits perfectly.”
Kitty bounds off, and I call after her, “Bring me a soda
too!”
“With ice!” Chris screams. Then she sighs a wistful sigh. “I
wish I had a little sister. I would be amazing at bossing her
around.”
“Kitty doesn’t usually listen so well. It’s only because she
looks up to you.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Chris picks at a fuzzy on her sock,
smiling to herself.
Kitty used to look up to Genevieve, too. She was sort of in
awe of her. “Hey,” I say suddenly. “How’s your grandma?”
“She’s all right. She’s pretty tough.”
“And how’s the rest of your family? Everything all
right?”
Chris shrugs. “Sure. Everything’s fine.”
Hmm. If Chris doesn’t know, how bad could things be with
Genevieve’s family? Either not that bad or, more likely, just
another one of Genevieve’s deceptions. Even when we were
little she lied a lot, whether it was to get out of trouble with her
mom, in which case she’d blame me, or to gain sympathy from
adults.
Chris peers at me. “What are you thinking about so hard?
Are you still stressing over your sex tape?”
“It’s not a sex tape if you’re not having sex in it!”
“Calm down, Lara Jean. I’m sure Peters grandstanding did
the trick and people will leave it alone. They’ll be on to the
next thing.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say.
“Trust me, there’ll be someone or something new to obsess
over by next week.”
It turns out that Chris is right, that people have moved on to
the next thing. On Tuesday, a sophomore boy named Clark is
caught masturbating in the boys locker room, and it’s all
everyone can talk about. Lucky me!
12
ACCORDING TO STORMY, THERE ARE two kinds of girls in
this world. The kind who breaks hearts and the kind who gets
her heart broken. One guess as to which kind of girl Stormy is.
I’m sitting cross-legged on Stormy’s velvet fainting couch,
going through a big shoe box of mostly black-and-white
photos. She’s agreed to join my scrapbooking class, and we’re
getting a head start organizing. I have several piles going.
Stormy: the early years; her teenagehood; her first, second,
and fourth weddings—no pictures from her third wedding,
because they eloped.
I am a heartbreaker, but you, Lara Jean, are a girl who gets
her heart broken.” She lifts her eyebrows at me for emphasis. I
think she forgot to pencil them in today.
I mull this over. I don’t want to be a girl who gets her heart
broken, but I also don’t really want to break boys’ hearts.
“Stormy, did you have a lot of boyfriends in high school?”
“Oh, sure. Dozens. That’s how we did it in my day. Drive-
in on Friday with Burt and cotillion with Sam on Saturday. We
kept our options open. A girl didn’t settle down unless she was
supremely, supremely sure.”
“Sure that she liked him?”
“Sure that she wanted to marry him. Otherwise what was
the point in ending all the fun?”
I pick up a picture of Stormy in a sea-foam formal gown,
strapless with a full skirt. She looks like she could be Grace
Kelly’s sneaky cousin, with her pale blond hair and the lift of
her brow. There’s a boy standing next to her, and he isn’t very
tall or particularly handsome, but there’s something about him.
A glint in his eye. “Stormy, how old were you in this one?”
Stormy peers at it. “Sixteen or seventeen. About your age.”
“Who’s the boy?”
Stormy takes a closer look, her face wrinkling like a dried
apricot. She taps her red fingernail on the picture. “Walter! We
all called him Walt. He was a real charmer.”
“Was he your boyfriend?”
“No, he was just a boy I saw from time to time.” She
waggles her pale eyebrows at me. “We went skinny-dipping
out by the lake, and we got caught by the police. It was quite
the scandale. I got to ride home in a police car in nothing but a
blanket.”
“And so … did people gossip about you?”
“Bien sûr.”
“I’ve had a little bit of a scandale of my own,” I say. Then I
tell her about the hot tub, and the video, and all the fallout. I
have to explain to her what a meme is. She is delighted; she’s
practically vibrating from the salaciousness of it all.
“Excellent!” she crows. “I’m so relieved you have some
bite to you. A girl with a reputation is so much more
interesting than a Goody Two-shoes.”
“Stormy, this is on the Internet. The Internet is forever. It’s
not just gossip at school. And also, I kind of am a Goody Two-
shoes.”
“No, your sister Margaret’s the Goody Two-shoes.”
“Margot,” I correct.
“Well, she certainly seems like a Margaret. I mean, really,
every Friday night at a nursing home! I’d have slit my wrists if
I was a teenage girl spending all my beauty years at a damn
nursing home. Excuse my French, darling.” She fluffs up the
pillow behind her. “Oldest children are always high-achieving
bores. My son Stanley is a frightful bore. He’s the worst. He’s
a podiatrist, for God’s sake! I suppose it’s my fault for naming
him Stanley. Not that I had any say in it. My mother-in-law
insisted we name him after her dead husband. Good Lord, she
was a crone.” Stormy takes a sip of her iced tea. “Middle
children are supposed to have fun, you know. You and I, we
have that in common. I was glad you hadn’t been coming
around as much. I was hoping you were getting into trouble.
Sounds like I was right. Although you might’ve come around a
bit more.”
Stormy’s terrific at making a person feel guilty. She’s
mastered the art of the injured sniff.
“Now that I’ve got a proper job here, I’ll be around a lot
more often.”
“Well, not too often.” She perks up. “But next time bring
that boy of yours. We could use some fresh blood around here.
Give the place a jolt. Is he handsome?”
“Yes, he’s very handsome.” The handsomest of all the
handsome boys.
Stormy claps her hands together. “Then you must bring him
by. Give me advance notice, though, so I look my absolute
best. Who else have you got waiting in the wings?”
I laugh. “No one! I told you, I have a boyfriend.”
“Hmm.” That’s all she says, just “hmm.” Then, “I have a
grandson who could be about your age. He’s still in high
school, anyhow. Maybe I’ll tell him to come by and see you.
It’s good for a girl to have options.” I wonder what a grandson
of Stormy’s might be like—probably a real player, just like
Stormy. I open my mouth to say no thank you, but she waves
me off with a shh. “When we’re done with my scrapbook, I’m
going to transcribe my memoirs to you, and you’ll type them
up for me on the computer. I’m thinking of calling it The Eye
of the Storm. Or Stormy Weather.” Stormy starts to hum.
“Stormy weather,” she sings. “Since my man and I ain’t
together … keeps rainin’ all the time… .” She stops short. “We
should have a cabaret night! Picture it, Lara Jean. You in a
tuxedo. Me in a slinky red dress draped over the piano. It’ll
give Mr. Morales a heart attack.”
I giggle. “Let’s not give him a heart attack. Maybe just a
tremor.”
She shrugs and goes on singing, adding a shimmy to her
hips. “Stormy weather …”
She’ll go off on a singing jag if I don’t redirect her.
“Stormy, tell me about where you were when John F. Kennedy
died.”
“It was a Friday. I was baking a pineapple upside-down
cake for my bridge club. I put it in the oven and then I saw the
news and I forgot all about the cake and nearly burned the
house down. We had to have the kitchen repainted because of
all the soot.” She fusses with her hair. “He was a saint, that
man. A prince. If I’d met him in my heyday, we really
could’ve had some fun. You know, I flirted with a Kennedy
once at an airport. He sidled up to me at the bar and bought me
a very dry gin martini. Airports used to be so very much more
glamorous. People got dressed up to travel. Young people on
airplanes these days, they wear those horrible sheepskin boots
and pajama pants and it’s an eyesore. I wouldn’t go out for the
mail dressed like that.”
“Which Kennedy?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. He had the Kennedy chin,
anyway.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Stormy and her
escapades. “Can I have your pineapple upside-down cake
recipe?”
“Sure, darling. It’s just yellow box cake with Del Monte
pineapple and brown sugar and a maraschino cherry on top.
Just make sure you get the rings and not the chunks.”
This cake sounds horrible. I try to nod in a diplomatic way,
but Stormy is onto me. Crossly she says, “Do you think I had
time to sit around baking cakes from scratch like some boring
old housewife?”
“You could never be boring,” I say on cue, because it’s true
and because I know it’s what she wants to hear.
“You could do with a little less baking and a little more
living life.” She’s being prickly, and she’s never prickly with
me. “Youth is truly wasted on the young.” She frowns. “My
legs ache. Get me some Tylenol PM, would you?”
I leap up, eager to be in her good graces again. “Where do
you keep it?”
“In the kitchen drawer by the sink.”
I rummage around, but I don’t see it. Just batteries, talcum
powder, a stack of McDonald’s napkins, sugar packets, a black
banana. Covertly, I throw the banana in the trash. “Stormy, I
don’t see your Tylenol PM in here. Is there anywhere else it
could be?”
“Forget it,” she snaps, coming up behind me and pushing
me to the side. “I’ll find it myself.”
“Do you want me to put on some tea?” Stormy is old; that’s
why she’s acting this way. She doesn’t mean to be harsh. I
know she doesn’t mean it.
“Tea is for old ladies. I want a cocktail.”
“Coming right up,” I say.
13
MY SCRAPBOOKING TO THE OLDIES class has officially
begun. I won’t deny that I’m disappointed with the turnout. So
far it’s just Stormy, Alicia Ito, who is sprightly and put-
together—short, buffed nails, pixie cut—and wily Mr.
Morales, who I think has a crush on Stormy. Or Alicia. It’s
hard to know definitively, because he flirts with everyone, but
they both have full pages in the scrapbook he’s working on.
He’s decided to title it “The Good Old Days.” He’s decorated
Stormy’s page with music notes and piano keys and a picture
of the two of them dancing on Disco Night last year. Alicia’s
page he’s still working on, but his focal point is a picture of
her sitting on a bench in the courtyard, gazing off into space,
and he’s affixed some flower stickers around it. Very romantic.
I haven’t got much of a budget, so I’ve brought my own
supplies. I’ve also instructed the three of them to collect scraps
from magazines and other little bobbles and buttons. Stormy’s
a pack rat like me, so she has all kinds of treasures. Lace from
her kids’ christening gowns, a matchbook from the motel
where she met her husband (“Don’t ask,” she said), old ticket
stubs to a cabaret she went to in Paris. (I piped up, “In 1920s
Paris? Did you ever meet Hemingway?” and she cut me with
her eyes and said she obviously wasn’t that old and I needed a
history lesson.) Alicia’s style is more minimalist and clean.
With my black felt tip calligraphy pen, she writes descriptions
in Japanese underneath each picture.
“What does it say here?” I ask, pointing to a description
below a picture of Alicia and her husband, Phil, at Niagara
Falls, holding hands and wearing yellow plastic ponchos.
Alicia smiles. “It says ‘the time we got caught in the rain.’”
So Alicia’s a romantic too. “You must miss him a lot.” Phil
died a year ago. I only met him a couple of times, back when
I’d help out Margot with Friday cocktail hour. Phil had
dementia, and he didn’t talk much. He’d sit in his wheelchair
in the common room and just smile at people. Alicia never left
his side.
“I miss him every day,” she says, tearing up.
Stormy jostles her way between us, green glitter pen tucked
behind her ear, and says, “Alicia, you need to jazz up your
pages more.” She flicks a sheet of umbrella stickers Alicia’s
way.
“No, thank you,” Alicia says stiffly, flicking the page back
at Stormy. “You and I have different styles.”
Stormy’s eyes narrow at this.
I quickly go over to the speakers and turn up the volume to
lighten the mood. Stormy dances over to me and sings,
“Johnny Angel, Johnny Angel. You’re an angel to me.” We put
our heads together and chorus, “I dream of him and me and
how it’s gonna be …”
When Alicia goes to the bathroom, Stormy says, “Ugh,
what a bore.”
“I don’t think she’s a bore,” I say.
Stormy points at me with her hot-pink manicured nail.
“Don’t you dare go liking her better than me just because
you’re both Asian.”
Hanging around a retirement home, I’ve gotten used to the
vaguely racist things old people say. At least Stormy doesn’t
use the word “Oriental” anymore. “I like you both equally,” I
tell her.
“There’s no such thing,” she sniffs. “No one can ever like
anyone exactly the same.”
“Don’t you love your kids the same?”
“Of course not.”
“I thought parents didn’t have favorites?”
“Of course they do. My favorite’s my youngest, Kent,
because he’s a mama’s boy. He visits with me every Sunday.”
Loyally I say, “Well, I don’t think my parents had
favorites.” I say it because it seems like the right thing to say,
but is it true? I mean, if somebody put a gun to my head and
said I had to choose, who would I say was Daddy’s favorite?
Margot, probably. They’re the most alike. She’s genuinely into
documentaries and bird-watching, just like him. Kitty’s the
baby, which automatically gives her an edge. Where does that
leave me, the middle Song girl? Maybe I was Mommy’s
favorite. I wish I could know for sure. I’d ask Daddy, but I
doubt he’d tell the truth. Margot might.
I’d never be able to pick between Margot and Kitty. But if,
say, they were both drowning and I could only throw one a life
jacket, it would probably have to be Kitty. Margot would never
forgive me otherwise. Kitty’s both of ours to care for.
The thought of ever losing Kitty puts me in a kinder, more
contemplative mood, and so that night after she’s asleep, I
bake off a tray of snickerdoodles, her favorite cookie. I have
bags of cookie dough in the freezer, frozen into perfect
cylindrical balls so that when any of us gets a taste for cookies,
we can have them in twenty minutes flat. She’ll have a nice
surprise when she opens her lunch bag tomorrow.
I let Jamie have a cookie too, even though I know I
shouldn’t. But he keeps looking up at me with sorrowful
puppy eyes and I can’t resist.
14
“WHAT ARE YOU DAYDREAMING ABOUT?” Peter taps my
forehead with his spoon to get my attention. We are at
Starbucks doing homework after school.
I dump two raw sugar packets into my plastic cup and stir it
all up with my straw. I take a long sip, and sugar granules
crunch satisfyingly against my teeth. “I was thinking about
how it would be neat if people our age could be in love like
it’s the 1950s.” Right away I wish I didn’t say “in love,”
because Peters never said anything about being in love with
me, but it’s too late, the words are already out of my mouth, so
I just press on and hope he didn’t catch it. “In the 50s, people
just dated, and it was as easy as that. Like one night Burt
might take you to a drive-in movie, and the next night Walter
might take you to a sock hop or something.”
Bemused, he says, “What the hell is a sock hop?”
“It’s like a dance, like in Grease.” Peter looks back at me
blankly. “You’ve never seen Grease? It was on TV last night.
Never mind. The point is, back then you weren’t somebody’s
girl until you had a pin.”
“A pin?” Peter repeats.
“Yes, a fellow would give a girl his fraternity pin, and it
meant they were going steady. But you weren’t official until
you had the pin.”
“But I’m not in a fraternity. I don’t even know what a
fraternity pin looks like.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Wait—are you saying you want a pin or you don’t want a
pin?”
“I’m not saying it either way. I’m just saying, don’t you
think there was something cool in the way it used to be? It’s
old-fashioned, but it’s almost …” What’s Margot always
saying? “Postfeminist.”
“Wait. So do you want to go on dates with other guys?” He
doesn’t sound upset, necessarily, just confused.
“No! I just I’m just making an observation. I think it
would be cool to bring back casual dating. There’s something
sweet about it, don’t you think? My sister told me she wishes
she didn’t let things get so heavy with her and Josh. You said
yourself how you hated how serious it got with Genevieve. If
we break up, I don’t want things to ever get so bad that we
can’t be in the same room together. I want to still be friends no
matter what.”
Peter dismisses this. “With me and Gen, it’s complicated
because of who Gen is. It’s not like with me and you. You’re
… different.”
I can feel my face get all flush again. I try not to sound too
eager as I say, “Like different how?” I know I’m digging for a
compliment, but I don’t care.
“You’re easy to be with. You don’t make me get all crazy
and worked up; you’re …” Peters voice trails off as he looks
at my face. “What? What did I say?”
My whole body feels tight and stiff. No girl wants to hear
what he just said. No girl. A girl wants to get a boy crazy and
worked up—isn’t that part of being in love?
“I mean that in a good way, Lara Jean. Are you mad? Don’t
be mad.” He rubs his face tiredly.
I hesitate. Peter and I tell each other the truth; that’s how
it’s been since the beginning. I’d like it to stay that way, on
both sides. But then I catch the sudden worry in his eyes, the
uncertainty, and it’s not something I’m used to seeing on him.
I don’t like to see it. We’ve only been back together a couple
of weeks, and I don’t want to start a new fight when I know he
didn’t mean any harm. I hear myself say, “No, I’m not mad,”
and just like that, I’m not anymore. After all, I’m the one who
was worrying about going too far too fast with Peter. Maybe
it’s a good thing he doesn’t get crazy and worked up over me.
The clouds in his face clear away instantly, and he is sunny
and bright again. That’s the Peter I know. He gulps at his tea.
“See, that’s what I mean, Lara Jean. That’s why I like you.
You just get it.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
15
EARLY MORNING BEFORE SCHOOL, JOSH is chiseling ice
off his windshield when I run out to my car. Daddy’s already
scraped the ice off mine and started the engine and turned on
the heat. By the looks of Josh’s car, he’s not going to make it
to school on time.
We’ve hardly seen Josh since Christmas; after all the
strangeness with me and then the breakup with Margot, he’s
been a ghost in this house. He leaves a little earlier for school
now, comes home a little later. He never reached out to me
when all the video stuff happened either, though part of me
was relieved for that. I didn’t want to hear I told you so from
Josh about how he was right about Peter.
I back out my driveway, and at the last second I open the
window and lean toward it. “Do you want a ride?” I call out to
Josh.
His eyes widen in surprise. “Yeah. Sure.” He throws his ice
scraper into his car and grabs his backpack, then comes
running over. Climbing in, he says, “Thanks, Lara Jean.” He
warms his hands on the heating vents.
We make our way out of the neighborhood, and I’m driving
carefully, because the roads are icy from the night before.
“You’ve gotten really good at driving,” Josh says.
“Thanks.” I have been practicing, on my own and with
Peter. I still get nervous sometimes, but each time I get in the
car and drive, it’s a little bit less, because now I know I can do
it. You only know you can do something if you keep on doing
it.
We’re a few minutes from school when Josh asks, “When
are we going to talk again? Just tell me so I have a general
idea.”
“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”
“You know what I mean. What happened with me and
Margot was between us—can’t you and I still be friends like
we were before?”
“Josh, of course we’ll still be friends. But you and Margot
have been broken up less than a month.”
“No, we broke up in August. She decided she wanted to get
back together three weeks ago, and I said no.”
I sigh. “Why did you say no, though? Was it just the
distance?”
Josh sighs too. “Relationships are hard work. You’ll see.
After you’ve been in it with Kavinsky longer, you’ll see what
I’m talking about.”
“Oh my God, you’re such a know-it-all. The biggest know-
it-all I ever met, besides my sister.”
“Which one?”
I can feel a giggle bubbling up inside of me, which I push
down. “Both. They’re both know-it-alls.”
“One more thing.” He hesitates, then keeps going. “I was
wrong about Kavinsky. The way he’s handled this whole video
thing, I can tell he’s a good guy.”
“Thanks, Joshy. He really is.”
He nods, and there is a comfortable quiet between us, and
I’m glad for the bad weather we had last night, glad for the ice
on his windshield this morning.
16
AFTER SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY I’m sitting on a bench,
waiting for Peter out front, when Genevieve walks out the
double doors on her phone. “If you don’t tell her, I will. I
swear I’ll do it.”
My heart stills. Who is she talking to? Not Peter.
Her friends Emily and Judith burst out the doors then, and
she abruptly hangs up. “Where the hell have you bitches
been?” she snaps.
They exchange a look. “Gen, chill out,” Emily says, and I
can tell she is walking that tightrope, a little bit feisty but
careful not to further incur her wrath. “We still have plenty of
time to shop.”
Genevieve notices me then, and her peevish expression
disappears. Waving, she says, “Hey, Lara Jean. Are you
waiting for Kavinsky?”
I nod, and blow on my fingers just to have something to do.
Also, it’s cold.
“That boy’s always running late. Tell him I’ll call him later
tonight, okay?”
I nod without thinking, and the girls walk away, arms
linked.
Why did I nod? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I ever
come up with a good comeback? I’m still berating myself
when Peter appears. He slides onto the bench beside me and
slings his arm around my shoulders. Then he ruffles the top of
my head the way I’ve seen him to do to Kitty. “What up,
Covey.”
“Thanks for making me wait for you outside in the cold,” I
say, pressing my freezing fingers on his neck.
Peter yelps and jumps away from me. “You could’ve
waited inside!”
He has a point. That’s not what I’m mad about anyway.
“Gen says to tell you she’ll call you later tonight.”
He rolls his eyes. “She’s such a shit stirrer. Don’t let her get
to you, Covey. She’s just jealous.” Standing up, he offers me
his hands, which I accept begrudgingly. “Let me take you for a
hot chocolate to warm up your poor frozen body.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
In the car, he keeps sneaking peeks at me, checking to see if
I’m still annoyed. I don’t keep up my chilly routine for much
longer, though; it takes up too much energy. I let him buy me a
hot chocolate and I even share it with him. But I tell him he
can’t have any of the marshmallows.
That night my phone buzzes on my nightstand, and I know
without looking that it’s Peter looking for more reassurance. I
take off my headphones and pick it up. “Hi.”
“What are you doing?” His voice is low; I can tell he’s
lying down.
“My homework. What about you?”
“I’m in bed. I just called to say good night.” There’s a
pause. “Hey, how come you never call me to say good night?”
“I don’t know. I guess I never thought of it. Do you want
me to?”
“Well. You don’t have to—I just wondered why not.”
“I thought you hated the whole ‘last call’ thing. Remember?
You put it in the contract. You said that Genevieve insisted that
she be your last call every night, and it was annoying.”
He groans. “Can we please not talk about her? Also, why is
your memory so good? You remember everything.”
“It’s my gift and my curse.” I highlight a paragraph and try
to balance the phone on my shoulder, but it keeps slipping.
“So wait, do you want me to call you every night or not?”
“Ugh, just forget it.”
“Ugh, fine,” I say, and I can hear him smiling through the
phone.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Wait—can you bring me one of those yogurt drinks for
lunch?”
“Say please.”
“Please.”
“Say pretty please.”
“Bye.”
“Byeeee.”
It takes me another two hours to finish my homework, but
when I fall asleep that night, I fall asleep smiling.
17
I THINK MY DAD IS on a date. tonight he said he had plans
with a friend, and he shaved and put on a nice button-down
shirt and not one of his ratty sweaters. He was in a hurry to
leave, so I didn’t ask who the friend was. Someone from the
hospital, probably. Daddy doesn’t exactly have wide social
circles. He’s shy. Whoever it is, this sounds like a good thing.
As soon as he leaves, I turn to Kitty, who is lying on the
couch watching TV and licking the sour off sour gummies.
Jamie lies asleep next to her. “Kitty, do you think Daddy’s—”
“On a date? Duh.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“Sure. Though I’d rather it was with someone I knew and
already liked.”
“What if he got married again? Would you be okay with
that?”
“Sure. So you can quit making your concerned-big-sister
face at me, all right?”
I try to smooth my face out like a blank sheet of paper.
Serenely I say, “So you’re saying you’re okay with Daddy
getting married again.”
“It’s just a date, Lara Jean. People don’t get married off of
one measly date.”
“But they do off of a lot of dates.”
A flash of worry crosses her face, and then she says, “We’ll
just wait and see. There’s no point in getting all revved up
yet.”
I wouldn’t say I’m revved up, exactly, but I am curious.
When I told Grandma I wouldn’t mind if Daddy dated, I meant
it, but I do want to know that she’s good enough for him,
whoever she is. I change the subject. “What do you want for
your birthday?” I ask her.
“I’ve got a list going,” she says. “A new collar for Jamie.
Leather. With spikes. A treadmill.”
“A treadmill!”
“Yeah, I want to teach Jamie how to walk on one.”
“I doubt Daddy will go for a treadmill, Kitty. They’re really
expensive, and besides, where would we even put it?”
“Okay fine. Scratch the treadmill. I also want night-vision
goggles.”
“You should cc Margot on that.”
“What kinds of special things can I get only from
Scotland?” she asks.
“Genuine Scottish shortbread. A tartan kilt. What else
golf balls. Loch Ness monster paraphernalia.”
“What’s paraphernalia?”
“A stuffed Loch Ness monster. A Loch Ness T-shirt. Maybe
a glow-in-the-dark poster.”
“Stop right there. That’s a good idea. I’m gonna add that to
my list.”
After Kitty goes to bed, I clean up the kitchen—I even
scrub the stove with a Brillo pad and organize the refrigerator
—so that I can give Daddy the third degree the second he gets
home. I’m refilling the flour canister when Daddy walks
through the door. Casually I say, “How was your date?”
He frowns in confusion. “Date? I went to the symphony
with my colleague Marjorie. Her husband came down with the
flu, and she didn’t want the ticket to go to waste.”
I deflate. “Oh.”
Humming, he pours himself a glass of water and says, “I
should go to the symphony more often. Any interest, Lara
Jean?”
“Um … maybe,” I say.
I make myself a stack of snickerdoodles, and I run up to my
room and sit down at my desk. Munching on one, I open up
my computer and type in “dating for dads,” and lo and behold
I find a dating site for single parents.
I start drafting a profile. First things first, he’ll need a
profile pic. I start going through the photos of him on my
computer. There are hardly any of him alone. I finally settle on
two, which I bookmark: one from last summer at the beach—a
full-length shot, because that’s one of the tips on the website—
and one of him from this past Christmas, wearing that
Scandinavian sweater we got him. He’s carving a roast
chicken, and he looks daddish in a wholesome coffee-
commercial way but still vital. The dim dining room light
makes him look hardly wrinkled at all, just some crinkles
around the eyes. Which reminds me: I should get on him about
wearing sunscreen every day. A men’s skin-care kit could be a
good Fathers Day gift. I make a note of it in my Reminders.
Daddy is only in his early forties. That’s still plenty young
enough to meet someone and fall in love, maybe two or three
times over, even.
18
WHEN KITTY WAS BORN, I said she looked like a kitten and
not a Katherine, so that’s the name that stuck. After we came
home from visiting her and Mommy at the hospital, Margot
and I made a HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KITTEN banner to make the time
go faster. We got out all the paints and craft supplies, and
Grandma got annoyed because there was a big mess to clean in
the kitchen, colors dripping all over the floor, handprints
everywhere. We have a picture of Mommy standing
underneath the sign holding Kitty that very first day, eyes tired
but bright. Happy.
It’s our tradition to put the sign on Kitty’s door so it’s the
first thing she sees when she wakes up. I get up really early
and hang the sign with care, so the edges don’t bend or rip. For
breakfast I make her a muenster-cheese omelet. With a
ketchup bottle I squeeze out a cat face with a heart around it.
We have a “celebrations drawer,” which is birthday candles,
paper hats, tablecloths, emergency birthday cards. I take out
the paper hats and put one on my head, jauntily to the side. I
set one each by Kitty and Daddy’s plate, and I put one on
Jamie Fox-Pickle too. He is not into it, but I’m able to get a
picture before he knocks the hat off.
Daddy’s prepared Kitty’s favorite lunch to take to school. A
Brie sandwich and chips, plus a red velvet cupcake with cream
cheese frosting.
Kitty delights in the place settings and in her cat face
omelet. She claps and laughs like a hyena when the rubber
band on Daddy’s hat snaps, and the hat springs off his head.
Truly, there’s no happier birthday girl than our Kitty.
“Can I wear your sweater with the daisies on it?” she asks
me, her mouth full of omelet.
I glance at the clock. “I’ll go get it, but you have to eat
fast.” He’ll be here any minute.
When it’s time to leave, we put on our shoes, kiss Daddy
good-bye, and tumble out the front door. Waiting for us on the
street in front of his car is Peter with a bouquet of cellophane-
wrapped pink carnations. “Happy birthday, kid,” he says.
Kitty’s eyes bulge. “Are those for me?”
He laughs. “Who else would they be for? Hurry and get in
the car.”
Kitty turns to me, her eyes bright, her smile as wide as her
face. I’m smiling too. “Are you coming too, Lara Jean?”
I shake my head. “No, there’s only room for two.”
“You’re my only girl today, kid,” Peter says, and Kitty runs
to him and snatches the flowers out of his hand. Gallantly, he
opens the door for her. He shuts it and turns and winks at me.
“Don’t be jealous, Covey.”
I’ve never liked him more than in this moment.
Kitty’s birthday party with all her friends won’t be for a few
weeks. She insisted on a sleepover, and Daddy’s on call for
weekends in February. Tonight, we’ll celebrate with a family
dinner.
One of Daddy’s most go-to dinners is roast chicken. He
calls it the house specialty. He’ll slather it in butter, pop an
onion and an apple inside, sprinkle some poultry seasoning,
and stick it in the oven. Usually a potato in some form as the
side. Tonight I’ve mashed sweet potatoes and sprinkled brown
sugar and cinnamon on top, then put them under the broiler so
the sugar burns like crème brûlée.
Kitty is in charge of setting the table and putting out the
condiments: Texas Pete’s hot sauce for Daddy, mustard for
Kitty, strawberry jam for me. Chutney for Margot if she were
here. “What kind of sauce did Mommy like with her chicken?”
Kitty asks me suddenly.
“I can’t remember,” I say. We both look at Daddy, who
is checking on the chicken.
“Did she like mustard like me?” she asks.
Closing the oven door, Daddy says, “Hmm. Well, I know
she liked balsamic vinegar. A lot. A lot a lot.”
“Just on chicken?” Kitty asks.
“On everything, actually. Avocados, with butter on toast,
tomatoes, steak.”
I file this away under Misc. Facts about M.
“Are you guys ready to eat?” Daddy asks. “I want to get
this bird out while it’s still nice and juicy.”
“In a minute,” Kitty says, and literally a minute later the
doorbell rings. Kitty springs into action. She comes back with
Ms. Rothschild from across the street. She’s in skinny jeans
and a black turtleneck sweater and high-heeled boots, a
chunky black-and-gold necklace around her neck. Her
mahogany brown hair is half up, half down. She’s carrying a
wrapped present in her hands. Jamie Fox-Pickle’s puppy legs
can’t get to her fast enough; he is sliding all over the place,
wagging his little tail.
Laughing, she says, “Well, hello, Jamie.” She sets her gift
on the counter and kneels down and pets him. “What’s up,
everybody?”
“Hi, Ms. Rothschild,” I say.
“Trina!” Daddy says, surprised.
Ms. Rothschild lets out an awkward laugh. “Oh, did you
not know I was coming? Kitty invited me when she was over
with Jamie today… .” She reddens. “Kitty,” she chides.
“I did tell him—it’s just that Daddy’s absentminded,” Kitty
says.
“Hm,” Ms. Rothschild says, giving her a look, which Kitty
pretends not to see. “Well, thank you anyway!” Jamie starts
jumping all over her, another of his bad habits. Ms. Rothschild
sticks her knee out and Jamie settles down immediately. “Sit,
Jamie.”
And then he actually sits! Daddy and I exchange an
impressed look. Clearly Jamie needs to continue under Ms.
Rothschild’s tutelage.
“Trina, what can I get you to drink?” Daddy asks her.
“I’ll have whatevers open,” she says.
“I don’t have anything open, but I’m happy to open
whatever you like—”
“Ms. Rothschild likes pinot grigio,” Kitty says. “With an
ice cube.”
She turns even redder. “God, Kitty, I’m not a lush!” She
turns to us and says, “I’ll have a small glass after work, but not
every night.”
Daddy laughs. “I’ll put some white wine in the freezer. It’ll
get cold soon.”
Kitty looks pleased as punch, and when Daddy and Ms.
Rothschild go into the living room, I grab her by the collar and
whisper, “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” she says, trying to squirm away.
“Is this a setup?” I hiss.
“So what if it is? They’d be a good match.”
Huh! “What makes you say that?”
Kitty ticks off her fingers. “She loves animals, she’s hot,
she makes her own money, and I like her.”
Hmm. All of that does sound good. Plus she lives across the
street, which is convenient.
“Do you think Ms. Rothschild watches documentaries?”
“Who cares about dusty old documentaries? He can watch
them with you or Margot. The important thing is chemistry.”
Kitty tries to jerk loose from my grip. “Let go of me so I can
see if they have any!”
I release her collar. “No, don’t go in yet.” Kitty huffs and
flounces away and I say meaningfully, “Let’s let it simmer for
a minute.”
She stops short and then gives me an appreciative nod.
“Let’s let it simmer,” she repeats, savoring the words.
Kitty is sawing her way through a piece of white meat, the
only kind she’ll eat—she likes it sliced thin like deli meat, and
Daddy tries but it always ends up kind of shredded and sad-
looking. I think maybe I’ll get him an electric carving knife for
this birthday. Personally, I like the thigh. I honestly don’t
know why anyone would bother eating anything but thigh if
they had the choice.
When Ms. Rothschild shakes some hot sauce on her
chicken, Kitty’s eyes glow like a lightning bug. I make note of
the way Ms. Rothschild laughs at Daddy’s corny jokes with
sincerity. I also appreciate the way she goes wild for my
snickerdoodles. I threw some frozen ones in the oven when
Daddy put the coffee on.
“I love how this cookie is crunchy but also soft. You’re
telling me you made this from scratch?”
“Always,” I tell her.
“Well, give me the recipe, girl.” Then she laughs. “Wait,
don’t bother. I know my strengths, and baking is not one of
them.”
“We’ll share with you anytime—we always have lots of
cakes and cookies,” Kitty says, which is rich coming from her,
because it’s not like Kitty ever helps. She only shows up for
the fun parts, the decorating and eating.
I sneak a look at Daddy, who is placidly sipping his coffee.
I sigh. He’s completely oblivious.
We all do the washing up and wrapping up of leftovers
together, and it feels very natural. Without anyone telling her,
Ms. Rothschild knows to hand-wash the wineglasses and not
put them in the dishwasher, and on the first try she finds the
aluminum foil and plastic wrap drawer. Which might say more
about Margot’s organizational skills than Ms. Rothschild’s
intuition, but still. I think I could see her fitting in with us
pretty seamlessly. And, as I said, she does live across the
street, which is convenient. People say absence makes the
heart grow fonder, but I think they’re wrong: Proximity makes
the heart grow fonder.
As soon as Ms. Rothschild’s gone home and Daddy’s in his
study, Kitty pounces on me in my room, where I’m setting out
school clothes. Navy sweater with a fox on it that I’ve been
saving for a rainy day, mustard-yellow skirt, knee socks.
“Well?” she demands. She has Jamie Fox-Pickle in her
arms.
“I like the way she started Saran-wrapping things; that was
some good initiative,” I say, pinning a tortoiseshell bow in my
hair and checking it out in the mirror. “She also complimented
my snickerdoodles a lot, which I appreciated. But I don’t
know if I necessarily saw any sparks with Daddy. I mean, did
you think he seemed interested?”
“I think he could be if she gave him a chance. She was
dating a guy from her office, but it didn’t work out because he
reminded her of her ex-husband.”
I raise my eyebrows. “It sounds like you guys have had
some serious talks.”
Proudly Kitty says, “She doesn’t treat me like a little kid.”
If Kitty’s that crazy about her, that says a lot. “Well, she
might not be Daddy’s type, but if we keep throwing them
together, who knows?”
“What do you mean she might not be Daddy’s type?”
“Her style seems really different than Mommy’s. Doesn’t
she smoke? Daddy hates that.”
“She’s trying to quit. She’s got an electronic cigarette now.”
“Let’s keep inviting her to things and see what happens,” I
say, picking up my hairbrush. “Hey, do you think if you
watched a video, you could give me a little side cornrow?”
“I could give it a shot,” Kitty says. “Curl the ends first and
then check with me after I watch my shows.”
“Got it.”
19
THE NEXT TIME MARGOT AND I video-chat, I break the
news to her. She’s sitting at her desk, wearing a Fair Isle
sweater, light blue and hunter green, and her hair is wet. She
has a Saint Andrews mug she’s drinking tea out of. “That’s a
cute sweater,” I say, nestling my laptop on my thighs and
getting cozy against my pillows. “So guess who Kitty’s been
trying to set Daddy up with.”
“Who?”
“Ms. Rothschild.”
Margot practically chokes on her tea. “From across the
street? You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s literally the
craziest thing I ever heard.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Yes! Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Kitty’s been spending a lot of time with her
because she’s teaching her how to train Jamie. She seems
pretty nice.”
“I mean, sure, she’s nice, but she wears so much makeup
and she’s always spilling hot coffee all over her cleavage and
shrieking like a banshee. Remember how she and her ex-
husband used to get into those screaming matches in their
yard?” Margot shudders. “What would she and Daddy even
have to talk about? She’s like a Real Housewife of
Charlottesville. Except she’s divorced.”
“She did mention that Real Housewives is her favorite
show,” I admit, feeling like a tattletale. “But she said it’s a
guilty pleasure!”
“Which city?”
“I think all of them?”
“Lara Jean, promise me you won’t let her get her hooks in
Daddy. He doesn’t know the first thing about dating in the
twenty-first century, and she’ll just eat him alive. He needs to
be with someone mature, someone with wisdom in her eyes.”
I snort. “Like who? A grandma? If so, I know a few from
Belleview I could set him up with.”
“No, but someone who’s at least the same age as him! She
should be sophisticated, but also enjoy nature and hiking and
that kind of thing.”
“When’s the last time Daddy hiked?”
“Not for years, but that’s the point—he needs a woman who
will encourage those kinds of interests. Keep him active,
physically and mentally.”
Giggling, I say, “And sexually?” I simply cannot resist
the joke, or the opportunity to gross Margot out.
“Ew!” she screams. “You’re depraved!”
“I’m just joking!”
“I’m hanging up on you right now.”
“No, don’t. If Ms. Rothschild isn’t the one, I was thinking
he should try online dating. I’ve found a dating site for him
and everything. He’s a handsome guy, you know. And at
Thanksgiving, Grandma was bugging him about dating more.
She says it’s not good for a man to be alone.”
“He’s perfectly happy.” She pauses. “Isn’t he?”
“I think he’s perfectly content? But that’s not the same
thing as happy, is it? Gogo, I hate to think of him being lonely
and the way Kitty’s so bent on setting him up with Ms.
Rothschild, it makes me think she’s longing for a mother
figure.”
Margot sighs and takes a sip of tea. “Okay, work on his
profile and send me the login info so I can weigh in on
everything. We’ll handpick a few and present him with a really
curated selection so he doesn’t get overwhelmed.”
Impulsively I say, “Why don’t we hold off until we see how
this thing with Ms. Rothschild plays out? We should at least
give her a chance, don’t you think? For Kitty’s sake.”
Margot sighs again. “How old do you think she is?”
“Like, thirty-nine? Forty?”
“Well, she dresses much younger.”
“You shouldn’t hold that against her,” I say, though I will
admit to feeling slight discomfort when she said we shop at the
same places. Does that mean she dresses too young or I dress
too old? Chris has called my style “granny meets little-girl
chic” and “Lolita went to library school.” Which reminds me.
“Hey, if you see any cute kilts, will you bring one back for
me? Red tartan, maybe with a big safety pin button?”
“I’ll keep my eyes open for you,” she promises. “Maybe I
can find matching for the three of us. Actually, the four of us.
It can be next years Christmas card.”
I snort. “Daddy in a kilt!”
“You never know, he might be into it. He’s always talking
up his one-quarter Scottish heritage. He can put his money
where his mouth is.” She wraps both hands around her mug
and takes a sip of tea. “Guess what. I met a cute boy. His name
is Samuel, and he’s in my British pop culture class.”
“Ooh. Does he have a posh accent?”
“Indubitably,” she says in a posh English accent. We both
giggle. “We’re meeting up at a pub tonight. Wish me luck.”
“Luck!” I shout.
I like seeing Margot like this, so light and happy and
unserious. I think it must mean she’s really and truly over
Josh.
20
“DON’T STAND IN FRONT OF the tv,” Kitty snaps.
I’m dusting the bookshelves with a new feather duster that I
ordered online. I don’t know the last time anybody dusted in
here. I whirl around and say, “Why are you being such a mean
little crab apple today?”
“I’m just in a mood,” she mutters, stretching her string-
bean legs out in front of her. “Shanae was supposed to come
over today and now she isn’t.”
“Well, don’t take it out on me.”
Kitty scratches her knee. “Hey, what would you think about
me sending Ms. Rothschild a valentine on Daddy’s behalf?”
“Don’t you dare!” I shake my feather duster at her. “You’ve
got to stop with this meddling habit of yours, Katherine. It’s
not cute.”
Kitty gives me a deep eye roll. “Ugh, I never should have
told you.”
“Too late now. Look, if two people are meant to be, they’ll
find their way to each other.”
“Would you and Peter have ‘found your way to each other
if I hadn’t sent those letters?” she challenges.
Point one for Kitty. “Probably not,” I admit.
“No, definitely not. You needed my little push.”
“Don’t act like sending my letters was some altruistic act
on your part. You know you did it out of spite.”
Kitty sails right past that and asks, “What does ‘altruistic’
mean?”
“Selfless, charitable, generous of spirit a.k.a. the
opposite of you.” Kitty shrieks and lunges at me, and we
struggle briefly, both of us breathless and giggling and
bumping into the shelves. I used to be able to disarm her with
not much effort, but she’s gaining on me. Her legs are strong,
and she’s good at wriggling out of my grasp like a worm. I
finally get both her arms behind her back, and she yells, “I
give, I give!” As soon as I release her, she jumps up and
attacks me again, tickling under my arms and going for my
neck.
“Not the neck, not the neck!” I shriek. The neck is my weak
spot, which everyone in my family knows. I fall to my knees,
laughing so hard it hurts. “Stop, stop! Please!”
Kitty stops tickling. “And that’s me being altru
altruistic,” she says. “That’s my altruicity.”
“Altruism,” I pant.
“I think ‘altruicity’ works too.”
If Kitty hadn’t sent those letters, would Peter and I still
have found our way to each other? My first impulse is to say
no, but maybe we would have kept going down different paths
and converged at some other fork in the road. Or maybe not,
but either way, we’re here now.
21
“TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR young man,” Stormy says.
We’re sitting cross-legged on her floor, setting aside pictures
and mementos for her scrapbook. She was the only one to
show up for Scrapbooking to the Oldies today, so we moved it
over to her apartment. I’d worried Janette would notice the
low attendance, but since I started volunteering, she hasn’t so
much as popped her head in. All the better.
“What do you want to know about him?
“Does he play any sports?”
“He plays lacrosse.”
“Lacrosse?” she repeats. “Not football or baseball or
basketball?”
“Well, he’s very good. He’s being recruited by colleges.”
“Can I see a picture of him?”
I get my phone out and pull up a picture of the two of us in
his car. He’s wearing a hunter green sweater that I think he
looks particularly handsome in. I like him in sweaters. I get the
urge to cuddle and pet him like a stuffed animal.
Stormy looks at it closely. “Huh,” she says. “Yes, he is very
handsome. I don’t know if he’s as handsome as my grandson,
though. My grandson looks like a young Robert Redford.”
Whoa.
“I’ll show you if you don’t believe me,” she says, getting
up and rooting around for a picture. She’s opening drawers,
moving papers around. Any other grandmother at Belleview
would already have a picture of her beloved grandson on
display. Framed, above the TV or on the mantel. Not Stormy.
The only pictures she has framed are pictures of herself.
There’s a huge black-and-white bridal portrait in the entryway
that takes up nearly the whole wall. Though I suppose if I was
once that beautiful, I would want to show it off too. “Huh. I
can’t find a picture.”
“You can show me next time,” I say, and Stormy lowers
herself back down on the couch.
She puts her legs up on the ottoman. “Where do young
people go these days for a little alone time? Is there no
‘Lookout Point’ type of place?” She’s digging, she’s definitely
digging for information. Stormy’s a bloodhound when it
comes to sniffing out juicy goods, but I’m not giving up a
thing. Not that I even have much juice to offer her.
“Um, I don’t know I don’t think so.” I busy myself with
cleaning up a pile of scraps.
She starts to cut up some trimmings. “I remember the first
boy I ever went parking with. Ken Newbery. He drove a
Chevy Impala. God, the thrill of a boy putting his hands on
you for the first time. There’s nothing quite like it, is there,
dear?”
“Mm-hmm. Where’s that stack of old Broadway playbills
you had? We should do something with those, too.”
“They might be in my hope chest.”
The thrill of a boy putting his hands on you for the first
time.
I get a shivery feeling in my stomach. I do know that thrill.
I remember it perfectly, and I would even if it hadn’t been
caught on camera. It’s nice to think of it again as its own
memory, separate from the video and everything that followed.
Stormy leans in close and says, “Lara Jean, just remember,
the girl must always be the one to control how far things go.
Boys think with their you-know-whats. It’s up to you to keep
your head and protect what’s yours.”
“I don’t know, Stormy. Isn’t that kind of sexist?”
“Life is sexist. If you were to get pregnant, you’re the one
whose life changes. Nothing of significance changes for the
boy. You’re the one people whisper about. I’ve seen that show,
Teen Moms. All those boys are worthless. Garbage!”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t have sex?” This whole time,
Stormy has been telling me to stop being such a stick-in-the-
mud, to live life, to love boys. And now this?
“I’m saying you should be careful. As careful as life and
death, because that’s what it is.” She gives me a meaningful
look. “And never trust the boy to bring the condom. A lady
always brings her own.”
I cough.
“Your body is yours to protect and to enjoy.” She raises
both eyebrows at me meaningfully. “Whoever you should
choose to partake in that enjoyment, that is your choice, and
choose wisely. Every man that ever got to touch me was
afforded an honor. A privilege.” Stormy waves her hand over
me. “All this? It’s a privilege to worship at this temple, do you
understand my meaning? Not just any young fool can
approach the throne. Remember my words, Lara Jean. You
decide who, how far, and how often, if ever.”
“I had no idea you were such a feminist,” I say.
“Feminist?” Stormy makes a disgusted sound in her throat.
“I’m no feminist. Really, Lara Jean!”
“Stormy, don’t get worked up about it. All it means is that
you believe men and women are equal, and should have equal
rights.”
“I don’t think any man is my equal. Women are far
superior, and don’t you forget it. Don’t forget any of the things
I just told you. In fact you should probably be writing it down
for my memoirs.” She starts to hum “Stormy Weather.”
There was never a threat of things going too far when we
were fake. But I see now how fast things can change without
you even realizing it. It can go from a kiss to hands under my
shirt in two seconds, and it’s so feverish, so frenzied. It’s like
we’re on a high-speed train that’s going somewhere fast, and I
like it, I do, but I also like a slow train where I can look out the
window and appreciate the countryside, the buildings, the
mountains. It’s like I don’t want to miss the little steps; I want
it to last. And then the next second I want to grow up faster,
more, now. To be as ready as everyone else is. How is
everyone else so ready?
I still find it very surprising, having a boy in my personal
space. I still get nervous when he puts his arm around my
waist or reaches for my hand. I don’t think I know how to date
in the 2010s. I’m confused by it. I don’t want what Margot and
Josh had, or Peter and Genevieve. I want something different.
I guess you could call me a late bloomer, but that implies
that we’re all on some predetermined blooming schedule, that
there’s a right or a wrong way to be sixteen and in love with a
boy.
My body is a temple not just any boy gets to worship at.
I won’t do any more than I want to do.
22
PETER AND I ARE AT Starbucks, sitting side by side,
studying for our chemistry exam. Idly, he puts his arm around
my chair and starts twisting my hair around his pencil and
letting it unfurl like a slice of ribbon. I ignore him. He pulls
my chair closer to his and plants a warm kiss on my neck,
which makes me giggle. I scoot away from him. “I can’t
concentrate when you do that.”
“You said you like when I play with your hair.”
“I do, but I’m trying to study.” I look around and then
whisper, “Besides, we’re in public.”
“There’s hardly anybody in here!”
“There’s the barista, and that guy over there by the door.” I
try to discreetly point with my pencil. Things have been quiet
at school; the last thing we need is another meme flare-up.
“Lara Jean, nobody’s going to film us if that’s what you’re
worried about. We’re not doing anything.”
“I told you from the start I’m not into PDAs,” I remind
him.
Peter smirks. “Really? Let’s not forget who kissed who in
the hallway. You literally jumped on top of me, Covey.”
I blush. “There was a purpose for that and you know it.”
“There’s a purpose now,” he pouts. “The purpose is I’m
bored and I feel like kissing you. Is that a crime?”
“You’re such a baby,” I say, pinching his nose hard. “If you
stay quiet and study for forty-five more minutes, I’ll let you
kiss me in the privacy of your car.”
Peters face lights up. “Deal.” His phone buzzes, and he
reaches down to check it. He frowns and texts something, his
fingers lightning quick.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He nods, but he looks distracted, and he keeps texting, even
as we’re supposed to be studying. And now I’m distracted too,
wondering what it could be. Or who.
23
I’M PUSHING MY GROCERY CART around, looking for
condensed milk for key lime pie, when I spot Josh in the cereal
aisle. I roll right up to him and bump him with my cart.
“Hey, neighbor,” I say.
“Hey, so guess what.” Josh grins a pleased, proud sort of
grin. “I got into UVA early.”
I let out a high-pitched shriek and let go of my cart. “Josh!
That’s amazing!” I throw my arms around him and jump up
and down. I shake his shoulders. “Be more excited, you loon!”
He laughs and jumps up and down a few times too before
releasing me. “I am excited. My parents are out of their heads
excited because now they don’t have to pay out-of-state
tuition. They haven’t fought in days.” Shyly he asks, “Will you
tell Margot? I feel like I can’t call her myself, but she deserves
to know. She’s the one who helped me study all that time. It’s
partly because of her that this is even happening.”
“I’ll tell her. I know she’ll be really happy for you, Josh.
My dad and Kitty, too.” I lift my hand for a high five, and he
smacks it. I can’t believe it—Josh is going to college, and soon
he won’t be my neighbor anymore. Not like before. Now that
he’ll be graduating and leaving town, maybe his parents will
finally get their divorce, and then they’ll sell the house and he
won’t even be my sort-of neighbor. Things have been off with
us for months, even before the Margot breakup, and we
haven’t hung out in ages but I liked knowing that he was
there, right next door if I needed him. “Once a little more time
has passed ,” I begin. “Once we have the all clear from
Margot, will you come over for dinner again like before?
Everyone misses you. I know Kitty’s dying to show you
Jamie’s new tricks. I’ll tell you right now, it’s nothing fancy,
so don’t get excited. But still.”
A smile spreads across his face, that slow smile I know so
well. “All right,” he says.
24
THE SONG GIRLS TAKE VALENTINE making very seriously.
A valentine is humble and sweet and sincere in its old-
fashionedness, and as such, homemade is best. I have plenty of
raw materials from my scrapbooking, but in addition I’ve
saved snippets of lace and ribbon and doilies. I have a tin with
little beads and pearls and rhinestones in it; I have antiquey
rubber stamps, too—a Cupid, hearts of all kinds, flowers.
Historically, Daddy gets one valentine from the three of us.
This year is the first that Margot will be sending one of her
own. Josh will get one too, though I let Kitty take the lead on
it and merely sign my name under hers.
I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon on Peters. It’s a
white heart, edged in white lace. In the center I’ve stitched
YOU’RE MINE, PETER K in pink string. I know it will make
him smile. It’s lighthearted, teasing; it doesn’t take itself too
seriously, much like Peter himself. Still, it acknowledges the
day and the fact that we, Peter Kavinsky and Lara Jean Song
Covey, are in a relationship. I was going to make a much more
extravagant card, big and beaded and lacy, but Kitty said it
would be a bit much.
“Don’t use all my pearls,” I tell Kitty. “It’s taken me years
to build up my collection. Literally, years.”
Pragmatic as ever, Kitty says, “What’s the point of
collecting them if you don’t use them? All that work so they
can just live in a little tin box where no one can even see
them?”
“I guess,” I say, because she does have a point. “I’m just
saying, only put pearls on the valentines of the people you
really like.”
“What about the purple rhinestones?”
“Use as many of those as you want,” I say in a benevolent
tone, much like a wealthy landowner to a less-fortunate
neighbor. The purple rhinestones don’t go with my motif. I’m
shooting for a Victorian look, and purple rhinestones are more
Mardi Gras, but you won’t see me saying that to Kitty. Kitty’s
temperament is such that when she knows you don’t much
value something, she grows suspicious of it too and the appeal
is lost to her. For a long time I had her convinced that raisins
were my absolute favorite, and she must never ever eat more
than her share, when in actuality I hate raisins and was grateful
someone else was eating them. Kitty used to hoard raisins; she
was probably the most regular kid in kindergarten.
I’m hot-gluing white bric-a-brac around a heart as I wonder
aloud, “Should we do a special breakfast for Daddy? We could
buy one of those juicers at the mall and make fresh-squeezed
pink grapefruit juice. And I think I saw heart waffle makers
online for not very expensive.”
“Daddy doesn’t like grapefruit,” Kitty says. “And we barely
use our regular waffle maker as it is. How about we just cut
the waffle into the shape of a heart instead?”
“That would look so cheap,” I scoff. But she’s right.
There’s no sense in buying something we’d only ever use once
a year, even if it only costs $19.99. As Kitty gets older, I see
that she is far more like Margot than me.
But then she says, “What if we use our cookie cutter to
make heart-shaped pancakes instead? And put in red food
coloring?”
I beam at her. “Attagirl!” So maybe she’s got a little bit of
me in her after all.
Kitty continues. “We could put red food coloring in the
syrup, too, to make it look like blood. A bloody heart!”
No, never mind. Kitty is all her own.
25
THE NIGHT BEFORE VALENTINE’S DAY, I get it in my
head that my card for Peter isn’t enough and cherry turnovers
would be a fantastic idea, so I wake up before the sun rises to
bake them fresh, and now the kitchen looks like a crime scene.
Cherry juice splattered all over the countertops and tiles. It’s a
bloodbath, a cherry-juice bloodbath. Worse than the time I
made red velvet cake and got red food coloring in the
backsplash tiles. I had to take a toothbrush to the grout.
But my turnovers turn out so perfect, right out of a cartoon,
each one so golden and homey, with their fork-tined edges and
the little holes to let out steam. My plan is to bring these to the
lunch table; I know that Peter and Gabe and Darrell will
appreciate them. I’ll give one to Lucas, too. And Chris, if she
shows up for school.
I text Peter that I don’t need a ride, because I want to get
there early and put the valentine in his locker. There’s
something sweet about a valentine in a locker—when you
think about it, a locker is much like a mailbox, and everyone
knows that letters sent in the mail are far more romantic than
when they’re unceremoniously handed over in person.
Kitty comes downstairs around seven, and the two of us set
a beautiful Valentine’s table setting for Daddy, with his
valentines from me, Kitty, and Margot arranged around his
plate. I leave him two turnovers. I miss the big reaction
because I don’t want to get to school after Peter. He always
cuts it close, so I figure I’m fine being just five minutes early.
When I get to school, I slip the valentine into Peters locker,
then head to the cafeteria to wait for him.
But when I walk in, he’s already there, standing by the
vending machines with … Genevieve. He has his hands on her
shoulders, and he is talking to her intently. She’s nodding, her
eyes downcast. What could it be, this thing that has her so sad?
Or is it just an act, a way to keep Peter close?
Here it is Valentine’s Day and I feel like I’m interrupting
my boyfriend and his ex-girlfriend. Is he really just being a
good friend to her, or is it something more? With her I feel like
it’s always something more, whether he knows it or not. Have
they exchanged Valentine’s gifts, for old times’ sake? Is that
me being paranoid or is that a thing that exes who are still
friends do?
She spots me then, says something to Peter, and walks past
me and out of the cafeteria. He strides over to me. “Happy
Valentine’s Day, Covey.” He puts his hands on my waist and
picks me up for a hug like I weigh nothing. Setting me down,
he says, “Can we kiss in public since it’s a holiday?”
“Where’s my valentine first?” I say, holding my hand out.
Peter laughs. “Damn, it’s in my backpack. Geez. So
greedy.” Whatever it is, I can tell he is excited to give it to me,
which in turn excites me. He takes my hand and leads me over
to the table where his backpack is. “First sit down,” he says,
and I obey. He sits down next to me. “Close your eyes and
hold out your hand.”
I do, and I hear him unzip his bag, and then he puts
something in my hand, a piece of paper. I open my eyes.
“It’s a poem,” he says. “For you.”
The moon never beams without bringing me
dreams
Of beautiful Lara Jean.
And stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of beautiful Lara Jean.
I touch my hand to my lips. Beautiful Lara Jean! I can’t
even believe it. “This is my favorite thing anyone has ever
done for me. I could squeeze you to death right now I’m so
happy.” To picture him, sitting at his desk at home, scribbling
away with a pen and paper, endears him to me so completely.
It gives me shivers. Currents of electricity from my scalp
down to my toes.
“Really? You like it?”
“I love it!” I throw my arms around him and squeeze with
all my might. I will put this valentine in my hatbox, and when
I’m old like Stormy, I will take it out and look at it and
remember this exact moment. Forget Genevieve; forget
everything. Peter Kavinsky wrote me a poem.
“That’s not the only present I brought you. It’s not even the
best one.” He peels away from me and pulls a little velvet
jewelry box out of his backpack. I gasp. Pleased, he says,
“Hurry up and open it already.”
“Is it a pin?”
“It’s better.”
My hands fly to my mouth. It’s my necklace, the heart
locket from his mom’s antique store, the very same necklace I
admired for so many months. At Christmas when Daddy said
the necklace had been sold, I thought it was gone from my life
forever. “I can’t believe it,” I whisper, touching the diamond
chip in the middle.
“Here, let me put it on for you.”
I lift my hair up, and Peter comes around and fastens the
necklace around my neck. “Can I even accept this?” I wonder
aloud. “It was really expensive, Peter! Like, really really
expensive.”
He laughs. “I know how much it cost. Don’t worry, my
mom cut me a deal. I had to sign over a bunch of weekends to
driving the van around picking up furniture for the store, but
you know, no biggie. It’s whatever, as long as you’re into it.”
I touch the necklace. “I am! I’m so, so into it.”
Surreptitiously I look around the cafeteria. It’s a petty thought,
a small thought, but I wish Genevieve were here to see this.
“Wait, where’s my valentine?” Peter asks me.
“It’s in your locker,” I say. Now I’m sort of wishing I didn’t
listen to Kitty and let myself go a little overboard this first
Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend. With Peter. Oh, well. At
least there are the cherry turnovers still warm in my backpack.
I’ll give them all to him. Sorry, Chris and Lucas and Gabe.
I can’t stop looking at myself in this necklace. At school, I
wear it over my sweater, so all can see and admire. That night
I show it to Daddy, to Kitty, to Margot over video chat. As a
joke I show it off to Jamie Fox-Pickle. Everyone’s impressed.
I don’t take it off, ever: I wear it in the shower; I wear it to
sleep.
It’s like in Little House in the Big Woods, when Laura got a
rag doll for Christmas. It had black button eyes, and berry-
stained lips and cheeks. Red flannel stockings and a pink-and-
blue calico dress. Laura couldn’t take her eyes off of it. She
held that doll tight and forgot the rest of the world. Her mother
had to remind her to let the other girls hold it.
That’s how I feel. When Kitty asks to try it on, I hesitate for
a tiny second and then feel guilty for being so stingy. “Just be
careful with it,” I tell her as I unclasp the necklace.
Kitty pretends to drop the locket off the chain and I shriek.
“Just kidding,” she giggles. She goes over to my mirror and
looks at herself, her head tilted, neck arched. “Not bad. Aren’t
you so glad I set this whole you-and-Peter thing in motion?”
I throw a pillow at her.
“Can I borrow it for a special occasion?”
“No!” Then I think of Laura and the doll again. “Yes. If it’s
a very special occasion.”
“Thank you,” Kitty says. Then she cocks her head and
looks at me with serious eyes. “Lara Jean, can I ask you a
question?”
“You can ask me anything,” I say.
“It’s about boys.”
I try not to look too eager as I nod. Boys! So we’re here
already. All right. “I’m listening.”
“And you promise you’ll answer honestly? Sister swear?”
“Of course. Come sit by me, Kitty.” She sits down next to
me on the floor and I put my arm around her, feeling generous
and warm and maternal. Kitty really is growing up.
She looks up at me, doe-eyed. “Are you and Peter doing
it?”
“What?” I shove her away. “Kitty!”
Gleefully she says, “You promised you’d answer!”
“Well, the answer is no, you sneaky little fink. God! Get out
of my room.” Kitty skips off, laughing like a mad hyena. I can
hear her all the way down the hallway.
26
JUST WHEN I THOUGHT THE hot-tub-video ordeal was well
and truly over with, another version pops up and reminds me
that this particular nightmare will never be over. Nothing on
the Internet ever dies; isn’t that what people say? This time
I’m in the library, and out of the corner of my eye I see two
sophomore girls sharing a pair of earbuds, watching the video,
giggling. There I am, in my nightgown, draped all over Peters
lap like a blanket. For a few seconds I just sit there, trapped in
my indecision. To confront or not to confront. I remember
Margot’s words about rising above it and acting like I couldn’t
care less. And then I think, Screw it.
I stand up, stalk over to them, and snatch the earbuds out of
the laptop. “Part of Your World” comes blasting out the
speakers.
“Hey!” the girl says, whirling in her seat.
Then she sees it’s me, and she and her friend exchange a
panicky look. She slams the laptop shut. “Go ahead, play it,” I
say, crossing my arms.
“No thanks,” she says.
I reach over her and open it and push play. Whoevers made
this video has spliced it with scenes from The Little Mermaid.
“When’s it my turn? Wouldn’t I love, love to explore that
shore up above …” I snap the computer shut. “Just so you
know, watching this video is the equivalent of child
pornography, and you guys could be charged for it. Your IP
address is already in the system. Think about that before you
forward it on. That’s distribution.”
The red-haired girl gapes. “How is this child porn?”
“I’m underage and so is Peter.”
The other girl smirks and says, “I thought you guys claimed
you weren’t having sex.”
I’m stumped. “Well, we’ll let the Justice Department sort
that out. But first I’m notifying Principal Lochlan.”
“It’s not like we’re the only ones looking at it!” the red-
haired girl says.
“Think about how you’d feel if it were you in that video,” I
say.
“I’d feel great,” the girl mutters. “You’re lucky. Kavinsky’s
hot.”
Lucky. Right.
It catches me off guard how upset Peter is when I show him
the Little Mermaid video. Because nothing bad ever sticks to
Peter; it just rolls off his back. That’s why people like him so
much, I think. He’s sure of himself; he’s self-possessed. It sets
people at ease.
But it’s the Little Mermaid video that breaks him. We watch
it in his car, on his phone, and he’s so mad I’m afraid he’s
going to throw the phone out the window. “Those fuckers!
How dare they!” Peter punches the steering wheel, and the
horn beeps. I jump. I’ve never seen him upset like this. I’m not
sure what to say, how to calm him down. I grew up in a house
full of women and one gentle dad. I don’t know anything
about teenage boys’ tempers.
“Shit!” he yells. “I hate that I can’t protect you from this.”
“I don’t need you to,” I say, and I realize as I say it that it’s
true. I’m coping on my own just fine.
He stares straight ahead. “But I want to. I thought I fixed it
before, but here it is again. It’s like fucking herpes.”
I want to comfort him, to make him laugh and forget.
Teasingly I ask him, “Peter, do you have herpes?”
“Lara Jean, it’s not funny.”
“Sorry.” I put my hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Peter starts the car. “Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. Let’s just drive.” I don’t want to run
into anybody, I don’t want any knowing looks or whispers. I
want to hide. Peters Audi, our little haven. To cover up my
bleak thoughts, I give Peter a bright smile, bright enough to
make him smile back, just.
The drive calms Peter down, and by the time we get to my
house, Peter seems to be in good spirits again. I ask him if he
wants to come inside and have pizza, it being pizza night and
all. I tell him he can order whichever toppings he wants. But
he shakes his head, says he should get home. For the first time
he doesn’t kiss me good-bye, and it makes me feel guilty, how
bad he feels. It’s partly my fault, I know it is. He feels like he
has to make things right for me, and now he knows he can’t,
and it’s killing him.
When I walk into the house, Daddy is waiting for me at the
kitchen table, just sitting and waiting, eyebrows knit together.
“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
“Sorry … my battery died. Is everything okay?” Judging by
the serious look on his face, everything is definitely not okay.
“We need to talk, Lara Jean. Come sit down.”
Dread hits me like a tidal wave. “Why, Daddy? What’s
wrong? Where’s Kitty?”
“She’s in her room.” I put down my bag and make my way
over to the kitchen table, feet moving as slow as I can make
them. I sit down next to him and he sighs heavily, hands
folded.
Just as I say, “Is this about the dating profile I set up for
you? Because I haven’t even activated it yet,” he says, “Why
didn’t you tell me what was going on at school?”
My heart drops all the way to the floor. “What do you
mean?” I’m still hoping, praying this is about something else.
Tell me I failed my chemistry test; say anything but the hot
tub.
“The video of you and Peter.”
“How did you find out?” I whisper.
“Your guidance counselor called me. She was worried
about you. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on, Lara
Jean?”
He looks so stern, and so very disappointed, which I hate
most of all. I feel pressure building behind my eyes. “Because
I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to think of me that way.
Daddy, I swear, all we were doing was kissing. That’s it.”
“I haven’t seen the video, and I won’t. That’s private,
between you and Peter. But I wish you had used better
judgment that day, Lara Jean. There are long-lasting
consequences to our actions.”
“I know.” Tears roll down my cheeks.
Daddy takes my hand out of my lap and holds it in his. “It
pains me that you didn’t come to me when things were so hard
for you at school. I knew you were going through something,
but I didn’t want to push too hard. I always try to think about
what your mom would do if she were here. I know it’s not
easy, only having a dad to talk to—” His voice breaks, and I
cry harder. “But I’m trying. I really am trying.”
I jump out of my seat and throw my arms around him. “I
know you’re trying,” I cry.
He hugs me back. “You have to know you can come to me,
Lara Jean. No matter what it is. I’ve spoken to Principal
Lochlan, and he’s going to make an announcement tomorrow
saying that anyone who watches or distributes the video will
be suspended.”
Relief floods over me. I should’ve come to my dad in the
first place. I stand up straight, and he reaches up and wipes my
cheeks. “Now, what’s this about a dating profile?”
“Oh I sit back down again. “Well I started one for
you on Singleparentloveconnection.com.” He’s frowning, so I
quickly say, “Grandma doesn’t think it’s good for a man to be
alone for so long, and I agree with her. I thought online dating
could help you get back out there.”
“Lara Jean, I can handle my own dating life! I don’t need
my daughter managing my dates.”
“But … you never go on any.”
“That’s my concern, not yours. I want you to take down
that profile tonight.”
“It was never even active; I just set it up in case. It’s a
whole new world out there, Daddy.”
“Right now we’re talking about your love life, not mine,
Lara Jean. Mine we’ll save for another time. I want to hear
about yours.”
“Okay.” Primly, I fold my hands in front of me on the table.
“What do you want to know?”
He scratches his neck. “Well are you and Peter pretty
serious?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I think I might love him. But maybe
it’s too early to say. How serious can you be in high school,
anyway? Look at Margot and Josh and how that turned out.”
Wistfully, Daddy says, “He never comes around here
anymore.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to be the girl crying in her dorm
room over a boy.” I stop suddenly. “That’s something Mommy
said to Margot. She said don’t be the girl who goes to college
with a boyfriend and then misses out on everything.”
He smiles a knowing kind of smile. “That sounds like her.”
“Who was her high school boyfriend? Did she love him a
lot? Did you ever meet him?”
“Your mom didn’t have a high school boyfriend. That was
her roommate she was talking about. Robyn.” Daddy chuckles.
“She drove your mom crazy.”
I rest back in my seat. All this time I thought Mommy was
talking about herself.
“I remember the first time I saw your mom. She was
throwing a dinner in her dorm called Fakesgiving, and a buddy
of mine and I went. It was a big Thanksgiving meal in May.
She had on a red dress, and her hair was long back then. You
know, you’ve seen the pictures.” He pauses, a smile flickering
on his face. “She gave me a hard time because I brought
canned green beans and not fresh ones. That’s how you knew
if she liked someone, if she teased them. Of course, I didn’t
know it at the time. I was pretty clueless about girls back
then.”
Ha! Back then. “I thought you guys met in a psychology
class,” I say.
“According to your mom, we took the same class one
semester, but I don’t remember seeing her. It was in one of
those lecture halls with hundreds of people.”
“But she noticed you,” I say. That, I’ve heard before. She
said she liked the way he paid attention in class, and how his
hair was a little too long in the back, like an absent-minded
professor.
“Thank God she did. Where would I be without her?”
This gives me pause. Where would he be? Without us,
certainly, but probably he wouldn’t be a widower either.
Would his life have been happier if he’d married some other
girl, made some other choice?
Daddy tips my chin. Firmly he says, “I would be nowhere
without her, because I wouldn’t have my girls.”
I call Peter and tell him Mrs. Duvall called my dad and he
knows all about the video, but he’s talked to Principal Lochlan
and everything will be fine now. I expect him to be relieved,
but he still sounds down. “Now your dad probably hates me,”
he says.
“He doesn’t,” I assure him.
“Do you think I should say something to him? I don’t
know, like, apologize, man to man?”
I shudder. “Definitely not. My dad is super awkward.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Please stop worrying, Peter. It’s like I told you, my dad’s
sorted it all out. Principal Lochlan will make the
announcement and people will leave us alone. Besides, there’s
nothing for you to apologize for. I was in it just as much as
you were. You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to
do.”
We hang up soon after, and even though I feel better about
the video, I still feel unsettled about Peter. I know he’s upset
about not being able to protect me, but I also know that part of
why he’s upset is because his pride was injured, and that has
nothing to do with me. Is a boy’s ego really such a fragile,
breakable thing? It must be so.
27
THE LETTER COMES ON A Tuesday, but I don’t see it until
Wednesday morning before school. I’m at the kitchen window
seat, eating an apple, going through the stack of mail while I
wait for Peter to pick me up. Electric bill, cable bill, a
Victoria’s Secret catalog, Kitty’s issue of this month’s Dog
Fancy (For Kids!). And then a letter, in a white envelope,
addressed to me. A boy’s handwriting. A return address I don’t
recognize.
Dear Lara Jean,
A tree fell in our driveway last week and Mr. Barber of Barber Landscaping
came by to haul it away. The Barbers are the family who moved into our old
house in Meadowridge, and not to overstate, but they own a landscaping
company. Mr. Barber brought your letter. I saw on the postmark you sent it
way back in September, but I only just got it this week, because it was sent to
my old house. That’s why it took me so long to write back.
Your letter made me remember all kinds of stuff I thought I’d forgotten. Like
that time your older sister made peanut brittle in the microwave and you guys
decided we should have a break-dancing contest for who got the biggest piece.
Or the time I got locked out of my house one afternoon and I went to the tree
house and you and I just read until it got really dark and we had to use a
flashlight. I remember your neighbor was grilling hamburgers and you dared
me to go ask for one for us to share, but I was too chicken. When I went home
I was in so much trouble because no one knew where I was, but it was worth
it.
I stop reading. I remember that day we both got locked out!
It was Chris and John and me, and then Chris had to leave and
it was just John and me. My dad had been at a seminar; I don’t
remember where Margot and Kitty were. We got so hungry,
we tore into the bag of Skittles that Trevor had stashed under a
loose floorboard. I suppose I could have gone to Josh’s for
food and shelter, but there was something fun in being
vagabonds with John Ambrose McClaren. It was like we were
runaways.
I have to tell you, your letter blew me away, because when I was thirteen, I
was still such a little kid, and here you were this actual person with complex
thoughts and emotions. My mom still cut my apple up for me for afternoon
snack. If I had written a letter to you in eighth grade it would have said, your
hair is pretty. That’s it. Just, your hair is pretty. I was so clueless. I had no idea
you liked me back then.
A few months ago I saw you at a Model UN scrimmage at Thomas Jefferson.
I doubt you recognized me, but I was there representing the Republic of
China. You dropped off a note for me and I called your name but you kept
walking. I tried to find you later, but you were gone. Did you see me?
I guess what I’m most curious about is why you decided to send me the letter
after all this time. So if you want to call me, or email me, or write me, please
do.
Yours truly, John
PS. Since you asked—the only people that call me Johnny are my mom and
my grandma, but feel free.
I let out a long sigh.
In middle school John Ambrose McClaren and I had all of
two “romantic” encounters—the spin-the-bottle kiss, which
honestly wasn’t the least bit romantic, and that day in the rain
during gym, which up until this year was the most romantic
moment of my life. I’m sure John doesn’t remember it that
way. I doubt he remembers it at all. To get this letter from him,
after all this time, it’s like he’s come back from the dead. It
feels different from seeing him for those few seconds at Model
UN in December. That was like seeing a ghost. This is a real,
living person I used to know, who used to know me.
John was smart; he made the best grades of the boys, and I
made the best grades of the girls. We were in honors classes
together. He liked history best—he always did his readings—
but he was good at math and science, too. I’m sure that hasn’t
changed.
If Peter was the last boy in our grade to get tall, John was
the first. I liked his yellow hair, sunny and fair like white
summer corn. He was innocent and sweet-cheeked, he had the
face of a boy who’d never been in trouble, and the
neighborhood mothers loved him best. He just had this look
about him. That’s what made him such a good partner in
crime. He and Peter used to get into all kinds of mischief
together. John was the clever one, he had the great ideas, but
he was a little bit shy to talk because he used to have a stutter.
He liked to play a supporting role, whereas Peter loved to
be the star. So everyone always gave the credit, and the blame,
to Peter, because he was the scamp and how could an angel
like John Ambrose McClaren really be to blame for anything?
Not that there was even much blame. People are so charmed
by beautiful boys. Beautiful boys get an indulgent shake of the
head and an “Oh, Peter,” not even a slap on the wrist. Our
English teacher Ms. Holt used to call them Butch Cassidy and
the Sundance Kid, which none of us had ever heard of. Peter
convinced her to show the movie to us in class one day, and
then they argued all year over who got to be Butch and who
had to be the Sundance Kid, even though it was very clear to
everyone who was who.
I bet all the girls at his school like him. When I saw him at
the Model UN scrimmage, he looked so assured, the way he
sat tall in his seat, shoulders squared, utterly focused. If I went
to John’s school, I bet I would be right there at the front of the
pack, with binoculars and a granola bar, camping out at his
locker. I’d have his schedule memorized; I’d know his lunch
by heart. Does he still eat double-decker peanut butter and
jelly sandwiches on whole wheat bread? I wonder. There are
so many things I don’t know.
Peters car honking out front is what shakes me out of my
reverie. I jump guiltily at the sound. I have this crazy impulse
to hide the letter, to tuck it away in my hatbox for safekeeping
and never think about it again. But then I think, no, that would
be crazy. Of course I’ll write John Ambrose McClaren back. It
would be rude not to.
So I tuck the letter in my bag, throw on my white puffer
coat, and run outside to Peters car. There’s still a bit of snow
on the ground from the last storm, but it looks shabby, like a
threadbare rug. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl when it
comes to weather, I’d much rather it all melt away or have feet
and feet of snow, so deep your knees sink in.
When I get in Peters car, he’s texting on his phone.
“What’s up?” I ask him.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just Gen. She wanted me to give
her a ride, but I told her we can’t.”
My skin prickles. It rankles that they still text so much, that
they’re in such easy contact, enough to ask for rides. But
they’re friends, just friends. That’s what I keep telling myself.
And he’s telling me the truth, just like we promised we would.
“Guess who I got a letter from.”
He backs out of the driveway. “Who?”
“Guess.”
“Um … Margot?”
“Why would that be surprising? No, not Margot. John
Ambrose McClaren!”
Peter just looks confused. “McClaren? Why would he write
you a letter?”
“Because I wrote him one, remember? Same as I did to
you. There were five love letters, and his was the only letter
that never came back. I thought it was lost forever, but then a
tree fell in John’s driveway after this last ice storm, and Mr.
Barber came to haul it away and he brought the letter.”
“Who’s Mr. Barber?”
“He’s the man who bought John’s old house. He owns a
landscaping company—that’s all beside the point, anyway.
The point is, John only just got my letter last week; that’s why
it took him so long to write back.”
“Hm,” Peter says, messing with the heating vents. “So he
wrote you an actual letter? Not an email?”
“No, it was a real letter that came in the mail.” I watch to
see if he is jealous, to see if this new development gets under
his skin even a little.
“Hm,” Peter says again. The second hm is bored-sounding,
noncommittal. Not the slightest bit jealous. “How is the
Sundance Kid anyway?” He snickers. “McClaren used to hate
when I called him that.”
“I remember,” I say. We’re at the stoplight; there’s a line to
get into school.
“What’d the letter say?”
“Oh, you know, just ‘how are you,’ the usual sort of
things.” I look out the window. I’m feeling a bit stingy about
sharing extra information because his ho-hum reaction hasn’t
merited any. Doesn’t he have the decency to at least act like he
cares?
Peter drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We should
hang out with him sometime.”
The thought of Peter and John Ambrose McClaren in the
same space together again is discomfiting. Where would I
even look? Vaguely I say, “Hmm, maybe.” Perhaps bringing
up the letter wasn’t such a great idea.
“I think he still has my old baseball glove,” he muses.
“Hey, did he say anything about me?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like did he ask what I was up to?”
“Not really.”
“Hmm.” Peters mouth turns down into a miffed sort of
expression. “What’d you write him back?”
“I just got it! I haven’t had time to write anything back.”
“Tell him I say hey when you do,” he says.
“Sure,” I say. I feel around in my bag to make sure the
letter is still in there.
“So, wait, if you sent a love letter to five of us, does that
mean you liked us all equally?”
He’s looking at me with expectant eyes, and I know he
thinks I’m going to say I liked him best, but that wouldn’t be
true. “Yes, I liked you all exactly the same,” I tell him.
“Bullshit! Who’d you like best? Me, right?”
“That’s a really impossible question to answer, Peter. I
mean, it’s all relative. I could say I liked Josh best, because I
liked him longest, but you can’t judge who you love the most
by how long you love them.”
“Love?”
“Like,” I say.
“You definitely said ‘love.’”
“Well, I meant ‘like.’”
“What about McClaren?” he asks. “How much did you like
him in comparison to the rest of us?”
Finally! A little jealousy at last. “I liked him …” I’m about
to say “the same,” but I hesitate. According to Stormy, no one
can ever like anyone exactly the same. But how can you
possibly quantify how much you like a person, much less two?
Peter always has to be liked the best. He expects it. So I just
say, “It’s unknowable. But I like you best now.”
Peter shakes his head. “For someone who’s never had a
boyfriend before, you really know how to work a guy.”
I raise my eyebrows. I know how to work a guy? That’s the
first time I’ve ever heard that in my life. Genevieve, Chris,
they know how to work guys. Not me. Never me.
28
Dear John(ny),
First of all, thanks for writing me back.
That was a really nice surprise. Second
of all … the story behind the letter. I
wrote you that letter in eighth grade, but
I never meant for you to see it. It sounds
crazy, I know, it was just a thing I used
to do—when I liked a boy, I’d write the
letter and then I’d hide it away in my
hatbox. The letters were just for me. But
then my little sister Kitty—remember
her? Scrawny and willful?— sent them
all out back in September, including
yours.
I do remember that break-dancing
contest. I think Peter won. He would’ve
taken the biggest piece of peanut brittle
either way, though! This is random but
do you remember how he used to
always take the last piece of pizza? So
annoying. Do you remember how he
and Trevor got into a fight over it and
they ended up dropping the pizza and
nobody got to have it? Do you
remember how all of us went to your
house to say good-bye when you
moved? I made a chocolate cake with
chocolate peanut butter frosting, and I
brought a knife but your forks and plates
were all packed up, so we ate it on the
front porch with our hands. When I got
home, I realized that the corners of my
mouth were stained brown from the
chocolate. I was so embarrassed. It feels
like such a long time ago.
I’m not in Model UN but I was there
that day and I did see you. Actually, I
had a feeling you might be there
because I remembered how into Model
UN you were in middle school. I’m
sorry I didn’t stick around so we could
catch up. I think I was just startled
because it had been so long. You looked
the same to me too. Much taller, though.
I have a favor to ask—would you mind
sending me back my letter? The other
ones have found their way back to me,
and though I’m sure it will be
excruciating, I’d really like to know
what I said.
Your friend, Lara Jean
29
IT’S LATE, AND ALL THE lights are off at my house. Daddy’s
at the hospital; Kitty’s at a sleepover. I can tell Peter wants to
come inside, but my dad will be home soon and he might be
freaked out if he gets home and it’s just the two of us alone in
the house so late. Daddy hasn’t said anything in so many
words, but since the video, something shifted just the tiniest
fraction. Now when I go out with Peter, Daddy oh-so-casually
asks what time I’ll be home, where we’ll be. He never used to
ask those kinds of questions, though I suppose he never had
much reason to before.
I look over at Peter, who has turned off the ignition.
Suddenly I say, “Why don’t we go up to Carolyn Pearce’s old
tree house?”
Readily, he agrees. “Let’s do it.”
It’s dark outside; I’ve never been up here in such darkness.
There was always a light on from the Pearces’ kitchen or
garage or from our house. Peter climbs up first and then shines
his phone flashlight down on me as I make my way up.
He marvels at how, inside, nothing’s changed. It’s just like
we left it. Kitty never had much interest in coming up here. It’s
just been sort of abandoned since we stopped using it in eighth
grade. “We” was the neighborhood kids my age: Genevieve,
Allie Feldman, sometimes Chris, sometimes the boys—Peter,
John Ambrose McClaren, Trevor. It was just a private place;
we weren’t doing anything bad like smoke or drink. We’d sit
up there and talk.
Genevieve was always thinking up games of Who Would
You Choose. If we were on a deserted island, which of us here
would you choose? Peter picked Genevieve without hesitation,
because she was his girlfriend. Chris said she’d pick Trevor
because he was the meatiest and also the most obnoxious, and
who knew if at some point she’d have to resort to cannibalism.
I said I’d pick Chris because I’d never get bored. Chris liked
that; Genevieve frowned at me, but she’d already been picked
once. And besides, it was true: Chris would be the funner
island companion, and probably more helpful around the
island. I doubted Genevieve would help gather firewood or
spear a fish. John took a long time to decide. He went around
the circle, weighing all of our merits. Peter was a fast runner,
Trevor was strong, Genevieve was crafty, Chris could handle
herself in a fight, and for me he said I would never give up
hope of being rescued. So he picked me.
It was the last summer we spent outside. Just, every day
was outside. As you grow up, you spend less and less time
outside. Nobody can say “Go play outside” anymore to you.
But that summer we did. It was the hottest summer in a
hundred years, they said. We spent most of it on bikes, at the
pool. We played games.
Peter sits down on the floor and takes off his coat and
spreads it out like a blanket. “You can sit here.”
I sit down, and he pulls me toward him by my ankles,
reeling me in carefully like a big fish that might jump off the
line. When we’re knees to knees, he kisses me: soft-lipped, we
have all the time in the world kisses. I’m shaking, but not from
the cold. I feel jittery heart-palpitations kind of nerves. Peter
bends his head and starts kissing my neck, making his way
down to my collarbone. I’m so keyed up, it doesn’t even tickle
the way it normally does when someone touches my neck. His
mouth is warm, and it feels nice. I fall back against my hands,
and he moves over me. Is this it? Is this when it’s supposed to
happen? On the floor of Carolyn Pearce’s tree house?
When his hand moves under my blouse, but still over my
bra, a panicky thought leaps into my head, one I haven’t
thought before—Genevieve’s boobs are definitely bigger than
mine. Will he be disappointed?
Suddenly I blurt out, “I’m not ready to have sex with you.”
His head jerks up in alarm. “God, Lara Jean! You scared
me.”
“Sorry. I just wanted to make that clear, in case it wasn’t.”
“It was clear.” Peter flashes a hurt look at me and sits up,
his back ramrod straight. “I’m not some caveman. Damn!”
“I know,” I say. I sit up and fix my necklace so the heart is
in front. “Just I hope you weren’t thinking that because you
gave me this beautiful necklace, that …” I stop talking because
he’s glaring at me. “Sorry, sorry. But do you miss sex?
Since you and Genevieve used to do it all the time, I mean?”
We’ve all heard the stories about Kavinsky and Gen’s sex life,
how they did it in Steve Bledell’s parents’ bedroom at his last-
day-of-school party, how she went on the pill in ninth grade.
How can someone who’s used to having sex 24/7 be content
with someone like me, a virgin who’s so far barely been to
second base with him? Not content. “Content” is the wrong
word. Happy.
“We didn’t do it all the time! I don’t want to talk about this
with you. It’s too weird.”
“I’m just saying, since I’ve never done it, but you’ve done
it a lot, is that, like, a void in your life? Do you maybe feel like
like you’re missing out? Is it, like, if I never had an ice
cream sundae, so I don’t know how good it is, but then I
finally try one and I’m craving it all the time?” I chew on my
bottom lip. “Are you … craving it all the time?”
“No!”
“Be honest!”
“Do I wish we were having sex? I mean, okay, yes. But it’s
not like I’m trying to pressure you. I’ve never even brought it
up! And it’s not like guys don’t have other ways of …” He
goes red. “Of release.”
“So … do you look at porn, then?”
“Lara Jean!”
“I have a naturally inquisitive personality! You know that
about me. You used to answer all my questions.”
“That was before. Now it’s different.”
Sometimes Peter can say the most insightful thing and not
even realize he’s said it. Things are different. They were easier
before. Before sex was ever up for discussion.
Haltingly I say, “In the contract we said we’d always tell
the truth.”
“Fine, but I’m not talking to you about porn.” I start to ask
another question and Peter adds, “All I’ll say about it is, any
guy that says he never looks at porn is a liar.”
“So you do.” I nod to myself. Okay. Good to know. “You
know those statistics people are always spouting off, about
teenage boys thinking about sex every seven seconds? Is that
really true?”
“Nope. And I just want to point out that you’re the one who
keeps bringing up sex. I think teenage girls might be more
obsessed than boys.”
“Maybe,” I say, and his eyes widen, all excited. Hastily I
add, “I mean, I’m definitely curious about it. It’s definitely a
thought. But I don’t see myself doing it anytime soon. With
anybody. Including you.”
I can tell Peter is embarrassed, the way he rushes to say,
“Okay, okay, I got it. Let’s just change the subject.” Under his
breath he mutters, “I didn’t even want to talk about it in the
first place.”
It’s sweet that he’s embarrassed. I didn’t think he would be,
with all his experience. I tug on his sweater sleeve. “At some
point, when I’m ready, if I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” And
then I pull him toward me and press my lips against his softly.
His mouth opens, and so does mine, and I think, I could kiss
this boy for hours.
Mid-kiss, he says, “Wait, so we’re never having sex? Like
ever?”
“I didn’t say never. But not now. I mean, not until I’m
really, really sure. Okay?”
He lets out a laugh. “Sure. You’re the one driving this bus.
You have been from the start. I’m still catching up.” He
snuggles closer and sniffs my hair. “What’s this new shampoo
you’re wearing?”
“I stole it from Margot. It’s juicy pear. Nice, right?”
“It’s all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you
used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one.”
A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over
a city.
“If I feel like it,” I say, which makes him pout. I’m already
thinking I should buy a bottle of the coconut hair mask, too,
but I like to keep him on his toes. Like he said, I’m the one
driving this bus. Peter pulls me against him so he’s curved
around my back like shelter. I let my head rest on his shoulder,
rest my arms on his kneecaps. This is nice. This is cozy. Just
me and him, just for a while, apart from the rest of the world.
We’re sitting there like that when suddenly I remember
something, an important something. The time capsule. John
Ambrose McClaren’s grandmother gave it to him for his
birthday in seventh grade. He’d asked for a video game, but
the time capsule was what he got. He said he was going to
throw it away, but then he thought one of us girls might want
it. I said I wanted it, and then Genevieve said she wanted it, so
of course Chris chimed in too. And then I had the idea to bury
it right there in the Pearces’ backyard under the tree house. I
got really excited and said everybody needed to put in
something that they had on them at that very moment. I said
we should come back the day we graduate from high school
and open it up and reminisce.
“Do you remember that time capsule we buried?” I ask
him.
“Oh, yeah! McClaren’s. Let’s dig it up!”
“We can’t open it without everybody else,” I say.
“Remember, we were going to do it after high school
graduation?” This was when I still thought we’d all be friends.
“You, me, John, Trevor, Chris, Allie.” I don’t say Genevieve’s
name.
Peter doesn’t appear to notice. “All right, then we’ll wait.
Whatever my girl wants.”
30
Dear Lara Jean,
I will give you your letter back on one condition. You have to make a solemn
unbreakable vow that you will return it to me after you’re done reading it. I
need physical proof that a girl liked me in middle school, otherwise who
would ever believe it?
And for what it’s worth, that peanut butter chocolate cake you baked was the
best I ever ate. I never had another cake quite like that one, with my name
written in Reese’s Pieces. I still think about it sometimes. A guy doesn’t forget
a cake like that.
I have one question for you. How many letters did you write? Just wondering
how special I should feel.
John
Dear John,
I, Lara Jean, hereby make a solemn vow
—nay, an unbreakable vow—to return
my letter to you, intact and unchanged.
Now give me my letter back!
Also you’re such a liar. You know very
well that plenty of girls liked you in
middle school. At sleepovers, girls
would be like, are you Team Peter or
Team John? Don’t pretend like you
didn’t know that, Johnny!
And to answer your question—there
were five letters. Five meaningful boys
in my whole life history. Though, now
that I’m writing it down, five sounds
like a lot, considering the fact that I’m
only sixteen. I wonder how many
there’ll have been by the time I’m
twenty! There’s this lady at the nursing
home I volunteer at, and she’s had so
many husbands and lived so many lives.
I look at her and I think, she must not
have even one regret, because she’s
done and seen it all.
Did I tell you my older sister Margot’s
all the way in Scotland, at St. Andrews?
It’s where Prince William and Kate
Middleton met. Maybe she’ll meet a
prince, too, haha! Where do you want to
go to college? Do you know what you
want to study? I think I want to stay in
state. Virginia has great public schools
and it’ll be much cheaper, but I guess
the main reason is I’m very close to my
family and I don’t want to be too-too far
away. I used to think I might want to go
to UVA and live at home, but now I’m
thinking dorms are the way to go for a
true college experience.
Don’t forget to send back my letter, Lara
Jean
Daddy’s at the hospital, but he’s made a big pot of oatmeal,
a vat of it like you see in a soup kitchen. By this time it’s
gummy and I have to put half a bottle of maple syrup and
dried cherries on mine to make it palatable, and even then I’m
not sure if I like oatmeal. I make a bowl for me with some
chopped-up pecans on top, and a bowl with just honey on top
for Kitty. “Have some gruel,” I call out. She’s in front of the
TV, of course.
We sit on stools at the breakfast bar and eat our gruel. I will
say there is something satisfying about it, the way it sticks to
your insides like paste. As I eat, I keep my eyes toward the
window.
Kitty snaps her fingers in my face. “Hello! I asked you a
question.”
“Has the mail come yet?” I ask.
“The mailman doesn’t come until after twelve on
Saturdays,” Kitty says, licking honey off her spoon. Eyeing
me she says, “Why have you been so excited about the mail all
week?”
“I’m waiting for a letter,” I say.
“From who?”
“Just no one important.” A rookie mistake. I should’ve
made up a name, because Kitty’s eyes narrow, and now she’s
really interested.
“If it wasn’t someone important, you wouldn’t be so gaga
looking out the window for it. Who’s it from?”
“If you must know, it’s actually a letter from me. One of
those love letters of mine you sent out.” I reach across the
table and pinch her arm. “It’s coming back my way.”
“From the boy with the funny name. Ambrose. What kind
of name is Ambrose?”
“Do you remember him at all? He used to live on our
street.”
“He had yellow hair,” Kitty says. “He had a skateboard. He
let me play with it once.”
“That sounds like him,” I say, remembering. Of all the
boys, he had the most patience with Kitty, even though she
was a pain.
“Stop smiling,” Kitty commands. “You already have a
boyfriend. You don’t need two.”
My smile slips. “We’re just writing letters, Kitty. Also don’t
snap at me.” I lean in to give her another pinch, and she jumps
up before I can. “What are you going to do today?”
“Ms. Rothschild said she’d take me and Jamie to the dog
park,” Kitty says, putting her dirty bowl in the sink. “I’m
gonna go over and remind her.”
“You’ve been hanging out with her a lot lately.” Kitty
shrugs and gently I say, “Just don’t become a nuisance, all
right? I mean, she’s like, forty; she might have other things she
wants to be doing with her Saturday. Like go to a winery or a
spa. She doesn’t need you harassing her about dating our dad.”
“Ms. Rothschild loves hanging out with me, so keep your
little opinions to yourself.”
I frown at her. “Seriously, you have such bad manners,
Kitty.”
“Blame my manners on you and Margot and Daddy, then.
You’re the ones who raised me this way.”
“Then I guess nothing will ever be your fault in life because
of the shoddy way you were raised.”
“I guess not.”
I let out a scream of frustration, and Kitty skips off,
humming to herself, pleased as punch to have annoyed me.
Dear Lara Jean,
For the record, the only reason girls ever paid me any attention was because I
was Peters best friend. It’s why Sabrina Fox asked me to be her date to the
eighth grade formal! She even tried to sit next to Peter at Red Lobster before
the dance.
As for college, my dad went to UNC, so he’s really pushing for that. He says I
have tar in my blood. My mom wants me to stay in state. I haven’t told
anyone this, but I really want to go to Georgetown. Knock on wood. Studying
for the SATs as we speak.
Anyway … here’s your letter back. Don’t forget your promise. I’m really
enjoying writing letters back and forth, but can I also have your phone
number? You’re pretty hard to find online.
My very first thought is: He hasn’t seen the video. He can’t
possibly have! Not if he’s saying I’m so hard to find online. I
suppose deep down I must have been worrying about it,
because I feel so relieved to know for certain. What a comfort,
to know that he can still have a certain idea of me in his head,
the same as I have of him. And truly, John Ambrose McClaren
isn’t the type of boy to look at Anonybitch. Not the John
Ambrose McClaren I remember.
I look back down at the letter, and there, at the bottom, is
his phone number.
I blink. Letters were harmless enough, but if John and I
started talking on the phone, would that be a betrayal of sorts?
Is there even a difference between texting and letter writing?
One is more immediate. But the act of writing a letter, of
selecting paper and pen, addressing the envelope, finding a
stamp, let alone putting pen to paper it’s far more
deliberate. My cheeks heat up. It’s more romantic. A letter
is something to keep.
Speaking of which I unfold the second piece of paper in
the envelope. It’s creased, a stationery I recognize well. Thick
creamy paper with LJSC engraved in navy at the top. A
birthday gift from my dad because of my delight in anything
monogrammed.
Dear John Ambrose McClaren,
I know the exact day it all started. Fall,
eighth grade. We got caught in the rain
when we had to put all the softball bats
away after gym. We started to run back
to the building, and I couldn’t run as fast
as you, so you stopped and grabbed my
bag too. It was even better than if you’d
grabbed my hand. I still remember the
way you looked—your T-shirt was stuck
to your back, your hair wet like you just
came out of the shower. When it started
to pour, you whooped and hollered like
a little kid. There was this moment—
you looked back at me, and your grin
was as wide as your face. You said,
“Come on, LJ!”
It was right then. That’s when I knew,
all the way down to my soaking-wet
Keds. I love you, John Ambrose
McClaren. I really love you. I might
have loved you for all of high school. I
think you might have loved me back. If
only you weren’t moving away, John!
It’s so unfair when people move away.
It’s like their parents just decide
something and no one else gets a say in
it. Not that I even deserve a say—I’m
not your girlfriend or anything. But you
at least deserve a say.
I was really hoping that one day I would
get to call you Johnny. Your mom came
to get you after school once, and a
bunch of us were hanging out on the
front steps. And you didn’t see her car,
so she honked and called out, “Johnny!”
I loved the sound of that. Johnny. One
day, I bet your girlfriend will call you
Johnny. She’s really lucky. Maybe you
already have a girlfriend right now. If
you do, know this—once upon a time in
Virginia, a girl loved you.
I’m going to say it just this once, since
you’ll never hear it anyway. Good-bye,
Johnny.
Love,
Lara Jean
I let out a scream, so loud and so piercing that Jamie barks
in alarm. “Sorry,” I whisper, falling back against my pillows.
I cannot believe that John Ambrose McClaren read that
letter. I didn’t remember it to be so . . . naked. With so much
yearning. God, why do I have to be a person who yearns so
much? How horrible. How perfectly horrible. I’ve never been
naked in front of a boy before, but now I feel like I have. I
can’t bear to look at it again, to even think about it. I scramble
up and stuff it back inside the envelope and push it under my
bed so it no longer exists. Out of sight, out of mind.
Obviously John won’t be getting this letter back. In fact I
don’t know if I should write him back at all. Things feel
altered, somehow.
I’d forgotten that letter, how ardently I longed for him. How
certain I was, how absolutely certain I believed we were meant
to be, if only. The memory of that belief shakes me up; it
leaves me feeling unsettled and even uncertain. Unmoored.
What was it about him, I wonder, that made me so sure?
Strangely, there’s no mention of Peter in my letter. In the
letter I say I started liking him in the fall of eighth grade. I
liked Peter in eighth grade too, so there was a definite
crossover. When did one begin and the other end?
The one person who would know is the one person I could
never ask.
She is the one who foretold that I would like John.
Genevieve slept over at my house most nights that summer.
Allie was only allowed to sleep over on special occasions, so it
was usually just the two of us. We’d go over what happened
that day with the boys, every detail. “This is going to be our
crew,” she said to me one night, her lips barely moving. We
were doing Korean face masks my grandma had sent, the kind
that look like ski masks, and drip with “essence” and vitamins
and spa-like things. “This is what high school is going to be
like. It’ll be me and Peter and you and McClaren, and Chrissy
and Allie can share Trevor. We’ll all be power couples.”
“But John and I don’t like each other like that,” I said, teeth
clenched to keep my face mask from shifting.
“You will,” she said. She said it like it was a preordained
fact, and I believed her. I always believed her.
But none of it came to be, except for the Gen and Peter
part.
31
LUCAS AND I ARE SITTING cross-legged in the hallway,
sharing a strawberry-shortcake ice cream bar. “Stick to your
side,” he reminds me as I lower my head for another bite.
“I’m the one who bought it!” I remind him. “Lucas do
you think it’s cheating to write letters to someone? Not me,
I’m asking for a friend.”
“No,” Lucas says. He raises both eyebrows. “Wait, are they
sexy letters?”
“No!”
“Are they the kind of letter you wrote me?”
A meek little “no” from me. He gives me a look like he
isn’t buying whatever I’m selling. “Then you’re fine.
Technically you’re in the clear. So who are you writing to?”
I hesitate. “Do you remember John Ambrose McClaren?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course I remember John Ambrose
McClaren. I had a crush on him in seventh grade.”
“I had a crush on him in eighth!”
“Of course you did. We all did. In middle school you either
liked John or you liked Peter. Those were the two main
choices. Like Betty and Veronica. Obviously John is Betty and
Peters Veronica.” He pauses. “Remember how John used to
have that really endearing stutter?”
“Yes! I mourned it a little when it went away. It was so
sweet. So boyish. And do you remember how his hair was the
color of pale butter? Like, the way I bet freshly churned butter
looks.”
“I thought it was more like moonlit corn silk, but yeah. So
how did he turn out?”
“I don’t know… . It’s strange because there’s the him I
remember from middle school, and that’s just my memory of
him, but then there’s the him now.”
“Did you guys ever go out back then?”
“Oh no! Never.”
“So that’s probably why you’re curious about him now.”
“I didn’t say I was curious.”
Lucas gives me a look. “You basically did. I don’t blame
you. I’d be curious too.”
“It’s just fun to think about.”
“You’re lucky,” he says.
“Lucky how?”
“Lucky that you have options. I mean, I’m not officially
‘out,’ but even if I was, there are, like, two gay guys at our
school. Mark Weinberger, who’s a pizza face, and Leon
Butler.” Lucas shudders.
“What’s wrong with Leon?”
“Don’t patronize me by asking. I just wish our school was
bigger. There’s nobody for me here.” He stares off into space
moodily. Sometimes I look at Lucas and for a second I forget
he’s gay and I want to like him all over again.
I touch his hand. “One day soon you’ll be in the world, and
you’ll have so many options you won’t know what to do with
them. Everyone will fall in love with you, because you’re so
beautiful and so charming, and you’ll look back on high
school as such a tiny blip.”
Lucas smiles, and his moodiness lifts away. “I won’t forget
you, though.”
32
“THE PEARCES FINALLY SOLD THEIR house,” Daddy
says, heaping more spinach salad on Kitty’s plate. “We’ll have
new backyard neighbors in a month.”
Kitty perks up. “Do they have kids?”
“Donnie says they’re retired.”
Kitty makes a gagging noise. “Old people. Boring! Do they
have grandkids, at least?”
“He didn’t say, but I don’t think so. They’re probably going
to take down that old tree house.”
I stop mid-chew. “They’re demolishing our tree house?”
Daddy nods. “I think they’re putting in a gazebo.”
“A gazebo!” I repeat. “We used to have so much fun up
there. Genevieve and I would play Rapunzel for hours. She
always got to be Rapunzel, though. I just got to stand
underneath it and call up”—I pause to put on my best English
accent—“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, miss.”
“What kind of accent is that supposed to be?” Kitty asks
me.
“Cockney, I think. Why? Was it not good?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.” I turn to Daddy. “When are they tearing the tree
house down?”
“I’m not sure. I’d imagine before they move in, but you
never know.”
There was this one time I looked out the window and saw
that John McClaren was up in the tree house alone. He was
just sitting by himself, reading. So I went out there with a
couple of Cokes and a book and we read up there all
afternoon. Later in the day Peter and Trevor Pike showed up,
and we put the books away and played cards. At the time I was
deep in the throes of liking Peter, so it wasn’t romantic in the
slightest, of that I’m sure. But I do remember feeling that our
quiet afternoon had been disrupted, that I’d rather have just
kept reading in companionable silence.
“We buried a time capsule under that tree house,” I tell Kitty
as I squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush. “Genevieve,
Peter, Chris, Allie, Trevor, me, and John Ambrose McClaren.
We were going to dig it up after we graduated high school.”
“You should have a time capsule party before they
demolish the tree house,” Kitty says from the toilet. She’s
peeing and I’m brushing my teeth. “You can send invitations
and it can be a fun little thing. An unveiling.”
I spit out toothpaste. “I mean, in theory. But Allie moved,
and Genevieve is a—”
“Witch with a b,” she supplies.
I giggle. “Definitely a witch with a b.”
“She’s scary. One time when I was little, she locked me in
the towel closet!” Kitty flushes the toilet and gets up. “You can
still have a party, just don’t invite Genevieve. It doesn’t make
sense for you to invite your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend to a time
capsule party anyway.”
As if there were some set etiquette for who to invite to a
time capsule party! As if there were really such a thing as a
time capsule party! “I got you out of the closet right away,” I
remind her. I set my toothbrush back down. “Wash your
hands.”
“I was going to.”
“And brush your teeth.” Before Kitty can open her mouth, I
say, “Don’t say you were going to, because I know you
weren’t.”
Kitty will do anything to get out of brushing her teeth.
We can’t just let this tree house go without a proper send-off.
It wouldn’t be right. We always said we’d come back. I will
have a party, and it will be themed. Genevieve would sneer at
that, how babyish—but it’s not like I’m inviting her, so who
cares what she thinks. It will just be Peter, Chris, Trevor, and
… John. I’ll have to invite John. As friends, just friends.
What did we eat that summer? Cheez Doodles. Melty ice
cream sandwiches—the chocolate wafer would stick to our
fingers. Lukewarm Hawaiian Punch flowed freely. Capri Suns
when we could get them. John always had a double-decker
peanut butter and jelly sandwich with him in a ziplock bag that
his mother packed. I’ll be sure to have all of those snacks for
the party.
What else? Trevor had portable speakers he used to carry
around. His dad was big into Southern rock, and that summer
Trevor played “Sweet Home Alabama” so much that Peter
threw his speakers out of the tree house and Trevor wouldn’t
speak to him for days. Trevor Pike had brown hair that curled
when it was wet, and he was chubby in the way that middle
school boys are (in the cheeks, around the middle) right before
they have a big growth spurt and everything sort of evens out.
He was always hungry and hanging around other people’s
cupboards. He’d have to go pee, and he’d come back with a
Popsicle or a banana, or cheese crackers, whatever he could
scam. Trevor was Peters number three. It went John and Peter
and then Trevor. They don’t hang out so much anymore.
Trevors more friends with the track guys. We don’t have any
classes together; I’m in all honors and APs and Trevor was
never that into school or grades. He was fun, though.
I remember the day Genevieve showed up at my house
crying, saying she was moving. Not far, she’d still go to school
with us, but she wouldn’t be able to ride her bike or walk over
anymore. Peter was sad; he comforted her, put his arms around
her. I remember thinking how grown-up they seemed in that
moment, like real teenagers in love. And then Chris and Gen
had a fight about something, a bigger fight than usual; I don’t
even remember what it was about. I think something with their
parents. Whenever their parents weren’t getting along, things
trickled down to them like trash floating down a river.
Gen moved away, and we were still friends, and then,
around the time of the eighth grade dance, she dropped me. I
guess there was no place for me in her life anymore. I thought
Genevieve was someone I would know forever. Those people
in your life that you just always know, no matter what. But it’s
not that way. Here we are, three years later, and we’re worse
than strangers. I know she took that video; I know she sent it
to Anonybitch. How could I forgive that?
33
JOSH HAS A NEW GIRLFRIEND: Liza Booker, a girl from
his comic-book club. She has frizzy brown hair, nice eyes, big
boobs, braces. She’s a senior like Josh, smart like Josh. I just
can’t believe he’s with a girl who’s not Margot. Next to my
sister, Liza Bookers nice eyes and big boobs are nothing.
I kept seeing a car I didn’t recognize in Josh’s driveway,
and then today, when I was getting the mail, she and Josh
came out of the house and he walked her to her car and then he
kissed her. Just like how he used to kiss Margot.
I wait until she’s driven away and he’s about to walk back
inside his house before I call out to him. “So you and Liza are
a thing now, huh?”
He turns around and at least looks sheepish. “We’ve been
hanging out, yes. It’s not serious or anything. But I like her.”
Josh comes a few feet closer, so we’re not so far apart.
I can’t resist saying, “There’s no accounting for taste. I
mean, that you’d pick her over Margot?” I let out a huffy little
laugh that surprises even me, because Josh and I are fine now
—not like before, but fine. It was a mean thing to say. But I’m
not saying it to be mean to Liza Booker, who I don’t even
know; I’m saying it for my sister. For what she and Josh used
to be to each other.
Quietly he says, “I didn’t pick Liza over Margot and you
know it. Liza and I barely knew each other in January.”
“Okay, well, why not Margot then?”
“It just wasn’t going to work out. I still care about her. I’ll
always love her. But she was right to break things off when
she left. It would only have been harder if we’d kept it going.”
“Wouldn’t it have been worth it just to see? To know?”
“It would’ve ended the same way even if she hadn’t gone to
Scotland.”
His face has that stubborn look to it; that weak chin of his is
firmly set. I know he isn’t going to say anything more: It isn’t
really my business, not truly. It’s his and Margot’s, and maybe
he doesn’t even fully know, himself.
34
CHRIS SHOWS UP AT MY house with ombré lavender hair.
Pulling her jacket hood all the way off, she asks me, “What do
you think?”
“I think it’s pretty,” I say.
Kitty mouths, Like an Easter egg.
“I mostly did it to piss off my mom.” There’s the tiniest bit
of uncertainty in her voice that she’s trying to conceal.
“It makes you look sophisticated,” I tell her. I reach out and
touch the ends, and her hair feels synthetic, like Barbie doll
hair after it’s been washed.
Kitty mouths, Like a grandma, and I cut my eyes at her.
“Does it look like shit?” Chris asks her, chewing on her
bottom lip nervously.
“Don’t cuss in front of my sister! She’s ten!”
“Sorry. Does it look like crap?”
“Yeah,” Kitty admits. Thank God for Kitty—you can
always count on her to tell the hard truths. “Why didn’t you
just go to a salon and have them do it for you?”
Chris starts running her fingers through her hair. “I did.”
She exhales. “Shi—I mean, crap. Maybe I should just cut off
the bottom.”
“I’ve always thought you would look great with short hair,”
I say. “But honestly, I don’t think the lavender looks bad. It’s
kind of beautiful, actually. Like the inside of a seashell.” If I
was as gutsy as Chris, I’d chop my hair off short like Audrey
Hepburn in Sabrina. But I’m not that brave, and also, I’m sure
I’d feel immediate remorse for my ponytails and braids and
curls.
“All right. Maybe I’ll keep it for a bit.”
“You should try deep-conditioning it and see if that helps,”
Kitty suggests, and Chris glares at her.
“I have a Korean hair mask my grandma bought me,” I say,
putting my arm around her.
We go upstairs, and Chris goes to my room while I root
around in the bathroom for the hair mask. When I get back to
my room with the jar, Chris is sitting cross-legged on the floor,
sifting through my hatbox.
“Chris! That’s private.”
“It was out in the open!” She holds up Peters valentine, the
poem he wrote me. “What’s this?”
Proudly I say, “That’s a poem Peter wrote for me for
Valentine’s Day.”
Chris looks down at the paper again. “He said he wrote it?
He’s so full of shit. This is from an Edgar Allan Poe poem.”
“No, Peter definitely wrote it.”
“It’s from that poem called ‘Annabel Lee’! We studied it in
my remedial English class in middle school. I remember
because we went to the Edgar Allan Poe museum, and then we
went on a riverboat called the Annabel Lee. The poem was
framed on the wall!”
I can’t believe this. “But … he told me he wrote it for me.”
She cackles. “Classic Kavinsky.” When Chris sees that I’m
not cackling with her, she says, “Eh, whatever. It’s the thought
that counts, right?”
“Except it isn’t his thought.” I was so happy to receive that
poem. No one had ever written me a love poem before, and
now it turns out it was plagiarized. A knockoff.
“Don’t be pissed. I think it’s funny! Clearly he was trying
to impress you.”
I should’ve known Peter didn’t write it. He hardly ever
reads in his spare time, much less writes poetry. “Well, the
necklace is real, at least,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
I shoot her a dirty look.
When Peter and I talk on the phone that night, I’m all set to
confront him about the poem, to at least tease him about it. But
then we get to talking about his upcoming away game on
Friday. “You’re coming, right?” he says.
“I want to, but I promised Stormy I’d dye her hair on
Friday night.”
“Can’t you just do it on Saturday?”
“I can’t, the time capsule party is on Saturday, and she has a
date that night. That’s why her hair needs to be done on
Friday… .” It sounds like a weak excuse, I know. But I
promised. And also I wouldn’t be able to ride on the bus
with Peter, and I don’t feel comfortable driving forty-five
minutes away to a school I’ve never been to. He doesn’t need
me there anyway. Not like Stormy needs me.
He’s silent.
“I’ll come to the next one, I promise,” I say.
Peter bursts out, “Gabe’s girlfriend comes to every single
game and she paints his jersey number on her face every game
day. She doesn’t even go to our school!”
“There have only been four games and I’ve gone to two!”
Now I’m annoyed. I know lacrosse is important to him, but it’s
no less important than my commitments at Belleview. “And
you know what? I know you didn’t write that poem for me on
Valentine’s Day. You copied it off of Edgar Allan Poe!”
“I never said I wrote it,” he hedges.
“Yes you did. You acted like you wrote it.”
“I wasn’t going to, but then you were so happy about it!
Sorry for trying to make you happy.”
“You know what? I was going to bake you lemon cookies
on game day, and now I don’t know.”
“Fine, then I don’t know if I’m going to make it to your
tree-house party on Saturday. I might be too tired from the
game.”
I gasp. “You’d better be there!” This party is small as it is,
and Chris isn’t the most reliable person. It can’t just be me and
Trevor and John. Three people does not a party make.
Peter makes a harrumph sound. “Well, then I’d better see
some lemon cookies in my locker come game day.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
On Friday I bring his lemon cookies and wear his jersey
number on my cheek, which delights Peter. He grabs me and
throws me in the air, and his smile is so big. It makes me feel
guilty for not doing it sooner, because it took so very little on
my part to make him happy. I can see now that it’s the little
things, the small efforts, that keep a relationship going. And I
know now too that in some small measure I have the power to
hurt him and also the power to make it better. This discovery
leaves me with an unsettling, queer sort of feeling in my chest
for reasons I can’t explain.
35
I’D WORRIED IT WOULD BE too cold for us to stay in the
tree house for long, but it’s unseasonably warm, so much so
that Daddy starts on one of his rants about climate change, to
the point where Kitty and I have to tune him out.
After his rant I get a shovel from the garage and set about
digging under the tree. The ground is hard, and it takes me a
while to get into a good groove digging, but I finally hit metal
a couple of feet in. The time capsule’s the size of a small
cooler; it looks like a futuristic coffee thermos. The metal has
eroded from the rain and snow and dirt, but not as much as
you’d think, considering it’s been nearly four years. I take it
back to the house and wash it in the sink so it gleams again.
Close to noon, I load up a shopping bag with ice cream
sandwiches, Hawaiian Punch, and Cheez Doodles and take it
all out to the tree house. I’m crossing our backyard to the
Pearces’, trying to juggle the bag and the portable speakers
and my phone, when I see John Ambrose McClaren standing
in front of the tree house, staring up at it with his arms crossed.
I’d know the back of his blond head anywhere.
I freeze, suddenly nervous and unsure. I’d thought Peter or
Chris would be here with me when he arrived, and that would
smooth out any awkwardness. But no such luck.
I put down all my stuff and move forward to tap him on the
shoulder, but he turns around before I can. I take a step back.
“Hi! Hey!” I say.
“Hey!” He takes a long look at me. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me.”
“My pen pal the elusive Lara Jean Covey who shows up at
Model UN and runs off without so much as a hello?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m pretty sure I at least said
hello.”
Teasingly he says, “No, I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”
He’s right: I didn’t. I was too flustered. Kind of like right
now. It must be that distance between knowing someone when
you were a kid and seeing them now that you’re both more
grown-up, but still not all the way grown-up, and there are all
these years and letters in between you, and you don’t know
how to act.
“Well—anyway. You look taller.” He looks more than
just taller. Now that I can take the time to really look at him, I
notice more. With his fair hair and milky skin and rosy cheeks,
he looks like he could be an English farmers son. But he’s
slim, so maybe the sensitive farmers son who steals away to
the barn to read. The thought makes me smile, and John gives
me a curious look but doesn’t ask why.
With a nod, he says, “You look … exactly the same.”
Gulp. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “I do?” I get up
on my tiptoes. “I think I’ve grown at least an inch since eighth
grade.” And my boobs are at least a little bigger. Not much.
Not that I want John to notice—I’m just saying.
“No, you look just like how I remembered you.” John
Ambrose reaches out, and I think he’s trying to hug me but
he’s only trying to take my bag from me, and there’s a brief
but strange dance that mortifies me but he doesn’t seem to
notice. “So thanks for inviting me.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Do you want me to take this stuff up for you?”
“Sure,” I say.
John takes the bag from me and looks inside. “Oh, wow.
All of our old snacks! Why don’t you climb up first and I’ll
pass it to you.” So that’s what I do: I scramble up the ladder
and he climbs up behind me. I’m crouched, arms outstretched,
waiting for him to pass me the bag.
But when he gets halfway up the ladder, he stops and looks
up at me and says, “You still wear your hair in fancy braids.”
I touch my side braid. Of all the things to remember about
me. Back then, Margot was the one who braided my hair. “You
think it looks fancy?”
“Yeah. Like … expensive bread.”
I burst out laughing. “Bread!”
“Yeah. Or … Rapunzel.”
I get down on my stomach, wriggle over to the edge, and
pretend like I’m letting down my hair for him to climb. He
climbs up to the top of the ladder and passes me the bag,
which I take, and then he grins at me and gives my braid a tug.
I’m still lying down but feel an electric charge like he’s zapped
me. I’m suddenly feeling very anxious about the worlds that
will be colliding, the past and the present, a pen pal and a
boyfriend, all in this little tree house. Probably I should have
thought this through a bit better. But I was so focused on the
time capsule, and the snacks, and the idea of it—old friends
coming back together to do what we said we’d do. And now
here we are, in it.
“Everything okay?” John asks, offering me his hand as I
rise to my feet.
I don’t take his hand; I don’t want another zap.
“Everything’s great,” I say cheerily.
“Hey, you never sent back my letter,” he says. “You broke
an unbreakable vow.”
I laugh awkwardly. I’d kind of been hoping he wouldn’t
bring that up. “It was too embarrassing. The things I wrote. I
couldn’t bear the thought of another person seeing it.”
“But I already saw it,” he reminds me.
Luckily, Chris and Trevor Pike show up and break up the
conversation about the letter. They immediately tear into the
snacks. Meanwhile Peters late. I text him a stern You better be on
your way. And then: Don’t text back if you’re driving. That’s dangerous.
Just as I’m texting again, Peters head pops up in the door
and he climbs inside. I’m about to give him a hug, but then
right behind him is Genevieve. My whole body goes cold.
I look from him to her. She sails right past me and sweeps
John into a hug. “Johnny!” she squeals, and he laughs. I feel
the sharp twist of envy in my stomach. Must every boy be
charmed by her?
While she’s hugging John, Peters looking at me with
pleading eyes. He mouths, Don’t be mad, and he clasps his
hands in prayer. I mouth back, What the hell, and he grimaces.
I never explicitly said I wasn’t inviting her, but I would have
thought it was pretty clear. And then I think, Wait a minute.
They came here together. He was with her and he never said a
word to me about it, and then he brought her here, here, to my
house. Specifically to my neighbors’ tree house. This girl who
has hurt me, hurt us both.
Then Peter and John are hugging and high-fiving and
slapping each other on the back, like old war buddies, long-
lost brothers in arms. “It’s been too fucking long, man,” Peter
says.
Genevieve is already unzipping her puffy white bomber
jacket and making herself comfortable. Whatever fleeting
moment there was for me to kick her and Peter both out of my
neighbors’ tree house is gone. “Hi, Chrissy,” she says, smiling
as she settles on the ground. “Nice hair.”
Chris glares at her. “What are you even doing here?” I love
that she says this—I love her.
“Peter and I were hanging out and he told me about what
you guys were doing today.” Shrugging out of her jacket,
Genevieve says to me, “I guess my invitation got lost in the
mail.”
I don’t reply, because what can I say in front of all these
people? I just hug my knees to my chest. Now that I’m sitting
next to her, I realize how small this tree house has become.
There’s hardly enough room for all the arms and legs, and the
boys are so big now. Before, we were more or less the same
size, boys and girls.
“God, was this place always so tiny?” Genevieve says to no
one in particular. “Or did we all just get really big?” She
laughs. “Except you, Lara Jean. You’re still itty-bitty pocket-
sized.” She says it sweetly. Like sweetened condensed milk.
Sweet and condescending. Poured on super thick.
I play along: I smile. I won’t let her get a rise out of me.
John rolls his eyes. “Same old Gen.” He says it dryly, with
weary affection, and she smiles her cute wrinkly-nose smile at
him like he’s paid her a compliment. But then he looks at me
and raises one sardonic eyebrow, and I feel better about
everything, just like that. In a strange way, maybe her presence
here completes the circle. She can take whatevers hers in that
time capsule, and this history of ours can be done.
“Trev, throw me an ice cream sandwich,” Peter says,
squeezing in between Genevieve and me. He stretches his legs
out into the center of the circle, and everyone else adjusts to
make room for his long legs.
I push his legs over so I can set the time capsule down in
the center. “Here it is, everybody. All your greatest treasures
from seventh grade.” I try to whip off the aluminum top with a
flourish, but it’s really stuck. I’m struggling with it, using my
nails. I look over at Peter and he’s digging into the ice cream
bars, oblivious, so John gets up and helps me unscrew it. He
smells like pine soap. I add this to the list of new things I’ve
learned about him.
“So how are we gonna do this?” Peter asks me, his mouth
full of ice cream. “Do we dump it all out?”
I’ve given this some thought. “I think we should take turns
pulling something out. Let’s make it last, like opening presents
on Christmas morning.”
Genevieve leans forward in anticipation. Without looking, I
reach into the cylinder and pull out the first thing my fingers
touch. It’s funny, I’d forgotten what I put inside, but I know
what it is instantly; I don’t have to look down. It’s a friendship
bracelet that Genevieve made for me when we were in our
weaving phase in fifth grade. Pink, white, and light blue
chevron. I made one for her too. Purple and yellow chevron.
She probably doesn’t even remember it. I look over at her, and
her face is blank. No recognition.
“What is it?” Trevor asks.
“It’s mine,” I say. “It’s … it’s a bracelet I used to wear.”
Peter touches his shoe to mine. “That piece of string was
your most treasured thing?” he teases.
John is watching me. “You used to wear it all the time,” he
says, and it’s sweet that he even remembers.
Once it goes on, it’s never supposed to come off, but I
sacrificed it to the time capsule because I loved it so much.
Maybe this is where Gen’s and my friendship went sour. The
curse of the friendship bracelet. “You go next,” I say to him.
He reaches inside the box and pulls out a baseball.
“That’s mine,” Peter crows. “That’s from when I hit a home
run at Claremont Park.” John throws the ball to him, and Peter
catches it. Examining it, he says, “See, I signed and dated it!”
“I remember that day,” Genevieve says, tilting her head.
“You came running off the field, and you kissed me in front of
your mom. Remember?”
“Uh … not really,” Peter mumbles. He’s staring down at the
baseball, turning it in his hand like he’s fascinated by it. I can’t
believe him. I really can’t.
“Awk-ward,” Trevor says with a chortle.
In a soft voice, like no one else is here, she says to him,
“Can I keep it?”
Peters ears are turning red. He looks at me, panicky.
“Covey, do you want it?”
“Nope,” I say, keeping my head turned away from them. I
grab the bag of Cheez Doodles and stuff a handful in my
mouth. I’m so mad all I can do is eat Cheez Doodles or else
I’ll scream at him.
“Okay, then I’m gonna keep it,” Peter says, putting the
baseball in his coat pocket. “Owen might want it. Sorry, Gen.”
He grabs the time capsule and starts rifling through it. He
holds up a worn-out baseball cap. Orioles. Too loudly he says,
“McClaren, look what I got here.”
A smile spreads across John’s face like a slow sunrise. He
takes it from Peter and puts it on his head, adjusting the bill.
“That really was your most prized possession,” I say. He
wore it deep into the fall, too. I asked my dad to buy me an
Orioles T-shirt because I thought John McClaren would be
impressed. I wore it twice but I don’t think he ever noticed.
My smile fades when I notice Genevieve watching me. Our
eyes meet; there is some knowing light in her gaze that makes
me feel twitchy. She looks away; now she is the one smiling to
herself.
“The Orioles suck,” Peter says, leaning against the wall. He
reaches for the box of ice cream sandwiches and pulls one out.
“Pass me one of those,” Trevor says.
“Sorry, last one,” Peter says, biting into it.
John catches my eye and winks. “Same old Kavinsky,” he
says, and I laugh. I know he’s thinking of our letters.
Peter grins at him. “Hey, no more stutter.”
I freeze. How could Peter bring that up so cavalierly? None
of us ever talked about John’s stutter back in middle school.
He was so shy about it. But now John just flashes a smile and
shrugs and says, “I’ll pass that along to my eighth grade
speech therapist, Elaine.” He’s so confident!
Peter blinks, and I can see that he is caught off guard. He
does not know this John McClaren. It used to be that Peter was
the shot caller, not John. He followed Peters lead. Peter might
still be the same, but John has changed. Now Peters the one
who is less sure-footed.
Chris goes next. She pulls out a ring with a tiny pearl in the
center. Allie’s, a confirmation gift from her aunt. She loved
that ring. I’ll have to send it to her. Trevor pulls out his own
treasure—an autographed baseball card. Genevieve is the one
to pull out Chris’s—an envelope with a twenty-dollar bill
inside.
“Yes!” Chris screams. “I was such a little genius.” We high-
five.
“What about yours, Gen?” Trevor asks.
She shrugs. “I guess I didn’t put anything in the capsule.”
“Yes you did,” I say, brushing orange Cheez dust off my
fingers. “You were there that day.” I remember she went back
and forth between putting in a picture of her and Peter or the
rose he gave her for her birthday. I can’t remember what she
decided on.
“Well, there’s nothing inside, so I guess I didn’t.
Whatever.”
I look inside the time capsule just to be sure. It’s empty.
“Remember how we used to play Assassins?” Trevor says,
squeezing the last bit of juice out of his Capri Sun.
Oh, how I loved that game! It was like tag: Everybody
picked a name out of a hat, and you had to tag the person out.
Once you got your person, you had to take out whoever they
had. It involved a lot of sneaking around and hiding. A game
could last for days.
“I was the Black Widow,” Genevieve says. She does a little
shoulder shimmy at Peter. “I won more than anybody.”
“Please,” Peter scoffs. “I won plenty.”
“So did I,” Chris says.
Trevor points at me. “L’il J, you were the worst at it. I don’t
think you won once.”
I make a face. L’il J. I’d forgotten he used to call me that.
And he’s right: I never did win. Not even once. The one time I
came close, Chris tagged me out at Kitty’s swim meet. I’d
thought I was safe because it was late at night. I was so close
to that win, I could almost taste it.
Chris’s eyes meet mine, and I know she’s remembering too.
She winks at me, and I give her a sour look.
“Lara Jean just doesn’t have the killer instinct,” Genevieve
says, looking at her nails.
I say, “We can’t all be black widows.”
“True,” she says, and my teeth clench.
John says to Peter, “Remember that one time I had you, and
I was hiding behind your dad’s car before school, but it was
your dad that came out, not you? And I scared him, and he and
I both screamed?”
“Then we had to quit altogether when Trevor came to my
mom’s store in his ski mask,” Peter guffaws.
Everyone laughs, except for me. I’m still smarting from
Genevieve’s “killer instinct” dig.
Trevors laughing so hard he can barely speak. “She almost
called the cops!” he manages to sputter.
Peter nudges my sneaker toe with his. “We should play
again.”
He’s trying to get back in my good graces, but I’m not
ready to let him, so I just shrug a chilly little shrug. I wish I
weren’t mad at him, because I really do want to play again. I
want to prove I’ve got the killer instinct too, that I’m not some
Assassins loser.
“We should do it,” John says. “For old times’ sake.” He
catches my eye. “One last shot, Lara Jean.”
I smile.
Chris raises an eyebrow. “What does the winner get?”
“Well nothing,” I say. “It would just be for fun.” Trevor
makes a face at this.
“There should be a prize,” Genevieve says. “Otherwise
what’s the point?”
I think fast. What would be a good prize? “Movie tickets?
A baked good of the winners choice?” I blurt out. No one
says a word.
“We could all put in a twenty,” John offers. I throw him a
grateful look and he smiles.
“Money’s boring,” Genevieve says, stretching like a cat.
I roll my eyes. Who asked for her two cents? I didn’t even
ask for her to be here.
Trevor says, “Um, how about the winner gets breakfast in
bed every day for a week? It could be pancakes on Monday,
omelet on Tuesday, waffle on Wednesday, and so forth. There
are six of us, so—”
Shuddering, Genevieve says, “I don’t eat breakfast.”
Everyone groans.
“Why don’t you suggest something instead of shooting
everybody down,” Peter says, and I hide my face behind my
braid so no one sees me smile.
“Okay.” Genevieve thinks for a minute, and then a smile
spreads across her face. It’s her Big Idea look, and it makes me
nervous. Slowly, deliberately, she says, “The winner gets a
wish.”
“From who?” Trevor asks. “Everybody?”
“From any one of us who are playing.”
“Wait a minute,” Peter interjects. “What are we signing on
for here?”
Genevieve looks very pleased with herself. “One wish, and
you have to grant it.” She looks like an evil queen.
Chris’s eyes gleam as she says, “Anything?”
“Within reason,” I quickly say. This isn’t at all what I had
in mind, but at least people are willing to play.
“Reason is subjective,” John points out.
“Basically, Gen can’t force Peter to have sex with her one
last time,” Chris says. “That’s what everyone’s thinking,
right?”
I stiffen. That wasn’t what I was thinking, like at all. But
now I am.
Trevor busts up laughing and Peter shoves him. Genevieve
shakes her head. “You’re disgusting, Chrissy.”
“I only said what everyone was thinking!”
I’m barely even listening at this point. All I can think is, I
want to play this game and I want to win. Just once I want to
beat Genevieve at something.
I only have one pen and no paper, so John tears up the ice
cream sandwich box and we take turns writing our names
down on our cardboard scraps. Then everybody puts their
names in the empty time capsule, and I shake it up. We pass it
around and I go last. I pull out the piece of cardboard, hold it
close to my chest, and open it.
JOHN.
Well, that complicates things. I sneak a peek at him. He’s
carefully tucking his piece of cardboard in his jeans pocket.
Sorry, (pen) pal, but you’re going down. I take a quick look
around the room for clues to who might have my name, but
everyone’s got their poker faces on.
36
THE RULES ARE: YOUR HOUSE is a safe zone. School is a
safe zone, but not the parking lot. Once you step out the door,
it’s all fair game. You’re out if you get hit with a two-hand
touch.
And if you renege on your wish, your life is forfeit.
Genevieve comes up with that last part and it gives me shivers.
Trevor Pike shudders and says, “Girls are scary.”
“No, girls in their family are scary,” Peter says, gesturing at
Chris and Genevieve. They both smile, and in those smiles I
see the family resemblance. Casting a sidelong glance at me,
Peter says hopefully, “You’re not scary, though. You’re sweet,
right?” Suddenly I remember something Stormy said to me.
Don’t ever let him get too sure of you. Peter is very sure of me.
As sure as a person could be.
“I can be scary too,” I quietly say back, and he blanches.
Then, to everyone else, I say, “Let’s just have fun with it.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun,” John assures me. He puts his Orioles cap
on his head and pulls the brim down. “Game on.” He catches
my eye. “If you thought I was good at Model UN, wait till you
see my Zero Dark Thirty skills.”
I walk with everyone out front to their cars, and I hear Peter
tell Genevieve to get a ride with Chris, which they both balk
at. “Figure it out amongst yourselves,” Peter says. “I’m
hanging out with my girlfriend.”
Genevieve rolls her eyes and Chris groans. “Ugh. Fine.” To
Genevieve she says, “Get in.”
Chris’s car is backing out of the driveway when John says
to Peter, “Who’s your girlfriend?” My stomach does a dip.
“Covey.” Peter gives him a funny look. “You didn’t know?
That’s weird.”
Now they’re both looking at me. Peters confused, but John
gets it, whatever “it” is.
I should have told him. Why didn’t I tell him?
Everyone leaves soon after, except for Peter.
“So are we going to talk about this?” he asks, trailing after
me into the kitchen. I’ve got the trash bag with all the ice
cream wrappers and Capri Suns, and I refused his help
carrying it down. Almost tripped going down the ladder with
it, but I don’t care.
“Sure, let’s talk.” I spin around and advance toward him,
trash bag swinging in my hand. He lifts his hands up in alarm.
“Why did you bring Genevieve here?”
Peter grimaces. “Ugh, Covey, I’m sorry.”
“Were you hanging out with her? Is that why you didn’t
come early to help me set up?”
He hesitates. “Yeah, I was with her. She called me crying,
so I went over there, and then I couldn’t just leave her by
herself … so I brought her.”
Crying? I’ve never known her to cry. Even when her cat
Queen Elizabeth died, she didn’t cry. She must have been
faking to get Peter to stay. “You couldn’t just leave her?”
“No,” he says. “She’s going through some shit right now.
I’m just trying to be there for her. As a friend. That’s it!”
“Gosh, she really knows how to work you, Peter!”
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s always like that. She pulls the strings and you just …”
I dangle my arms and head like a marionette doll.
Peter frowns. “That was mean.”
“Well, I feel mean right now. So watch out.”
“You’re not mean, though. Not usually.”
“Why can’t you just tell me? You know I won’t tell anyone.
I really want to understand it, Peter.”
“Because it’s not for me to say. Don’t try to make me tell
you, because I can’t.”
“She’s just doing this to manipulate you. It’s what she
does.” I hear the jealousy in my voice, and I hate it, I hate it.
This isn’t me.
He sighs. “Nothing’s happening with us. She just needs a
friend.”
“She has a lot of friends.”
“She needs an old friend.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t get it. Girls understand each
other in a way boys never will. It’s how I know this is all just
another one of her games. Showing up at my house today was
just another way for her to exert dominance over me.
Then Peter says, “Speaking of old friends, I didn’t realize
you and McClaren were so buddy-buddy.”
I flush. “I told you we were pen pals.”
Raising his eyebrows, he says, “You’re pen pals but he
doesn’t know we’re together?”
“It never came up!” Wait a minute—I’m the one who’s
supposed to be mad at him right now, not the other way
around. Somehow this whole conversation has flipped around,
and now I’m the one flailing.
“So that day you went to the Model UN thing a few months
ago, I asked you if you saw McClaren and you said no. But
then today he brought up Model UN, and you clearly did see
him there. Did you not?”
I swallow. “When did you turn into a prosecutor? Sheesh. I
saw him there but we didn’t even talk; I just handed him a note
—”
“A note? You gave him a note?”
“It wasn’t from me—it was from a different country, for
Model UN.” Peter opens his mouth to ask another question,
and I quickly add, “I just didn’t mention it because nothing
came of it.”
Incredulous, he says, “So you want me to be honest with
you, but you don’t want to be honest with me?”
“It wasn’t like that!” I cry out. What is even happening
here? How did our fight get so big so fast?
Neither of us says anything for a moment. Then, quietly, he
asks, “Do you want to break up?”
Break up? “No.” All of a sudden I feel shaky, like I could
cry. “Do you?”
“No!”
“You asked me first!”
“So that’s it. Neither of us wants to break up, so we just
move on.” Peter sinks down on a chair at the kitchen table and
rests his head on it.
I sit across from him. He feels so far away from me. My
hand is itching to reach out and touch his hair, smooth it out,
to make this fight be over and in our rearview.
He lifts his head; his eyes are sad and enormous. “Can we
hug now?”
Shakily I nod, and we both get up and I wrap my arms
around his middle. He holds me tight against him. His voice is
muffled against my shoulder as he says, “Can we never fight
again?”
I laugh a shaky kind of laugh, shaky and relieved. “Yes,
please.”
And then he’s kissing me; his mouth is urgent against mine,
like he’s searching for some sort of reassurance, some kind of
promise only I can give. In answer I kiss him back—yes, I
promise, promise, promise, let’s never fight again. I start to
lose my balance, and his arm locks around me tight, and he
kisses me until I am breathless.
37
ON THE PHONE THAT NIGHT, Chris says, “Spill it. Who do
you have?”
“I’m not telling.” I’ve made this mistake in the past, telling
Chris too much, only to have her tag her way to victory.
“Come on! I’ll help you if you help me. I want my wish!”
Chris’s strength in this game is how bad she wants it, but it’s
also her weakness. You have to play Assassins in a cool,
measured way, not go too hot too fast. I say this as someone
who’s observed all the nuances but has never personally won,
of course.
“You might have my name. Besides, I want to win too.”
“Let’s just help each other out on this first round of hits,”
Chris wheedles. “I don’t have your name, I swear.”
“Swear on your blankie that you won’t let your mom throw
away.”
“I swear on my blankie Fredrick and I double swear on my
new leather jacket that cost more money than my damn car.
Do you have my name?”
“No.”
“Swear on your ugly beret collection.”
I make an indignant sound. “I swear on my charming and
jaunty beret collection! So who do you have then?”
“Trevor.”
“I’ve got John McClaren.”
“Let’s team up to take them out,” Chris suggests. “Our
alliance can last as long as this first round, and then it’s every
girl for herself.”
Hmm. Is she for real or is this all strategy? “What if you’re
lying just to smoke me out?”
“I swore on Fredrick!”
I hesitate and then say, “Text me a picture of the name slip
and then I’ll believe you.”
“Fine! Then text me yours.”
“Fine. Bye.”
“Wait. Tell me the truth. Does my hair look like shit? It
doesn’t, right? Gen’s just a heinous troll. Right?”
I hesitate the tiniest of beats. “Right.”
Chris and I are slumped down in her car. We are one
neighborhood over from mine; it’s the neighborhood Trevor
will drive through to shortcut to school for track practice.
We’re parked in some random person’s driveway. She says,
“Tell me what you’re going to wish for if you win.” The way
she says it, I know she doesn’t think I’m going to win.
I thought about the wish all last night when I was trying to
fall asleep. “There’s a craft expo in North Carolina in June. I
could get Peter to drive me. There’s no way he’d take me
otherwise. We could take his mom’s van, so there’s plenty of
room for all the supplies and things that I’ll buy.”
“A craft expo?” Chris is giving me a look like I’m a
cockroach that flew into her car. “You would waste a wish on
a craft expo?”
“I was just getting warmed up with that idea,” I lie.
“Anyway, if you’re so smart, what would you wish for if you
were me?”
“I would make it so that Peter never talks to Gen again. I
mean, right? I’m an evil genius, am I not?”
“Evil, yes; genius, hardly.” Chris gives me a shove, and I
giggle. We’re both shoving each other when Chris stops short
and says, “Two fifty-five. It’s go time.” Chris unlocks the
doors and gets out and hides behind an oak tree in the yard.
My adrenaline is pumping as I hop out of Chris’s car, grab
Kitty’s bike out of her trunk, and push it a few houses. Then I
set it on the ground and drape myself over it in a dramatic
heap. Then I pull out the bottle of fake blood I bought for this
very purpose and squirt some on my jeans—old jeans I’ve
been planning on giving to Goodwill. As soon as I see
Trevors car approaching, I start to pretend sob. From behind
the tree Chris whispers, “Tone it down a little!” I immediately
stop sobbing and start moaning.
Trevors car pulls up beside me. He rolls down the window.
“Lara Jean? Are you okay?”
I whimper. “No I think I might have sprained my ankle.
It really hurts. Can you give me a ride home?” I’m willing
myself to tear up, but it’s harder to cry on cue than I would
have thought. I try to think about sad things—the Titanic, old
people with Alzheimers, Jamie Fox-Pickle dying—but I can’t
focus.
Trevor regards me suspiciously. “Why are you riding your
bike in this neighborhood?”
Oh no, I’m losing him! I start talking fast but not too fast.
“It’s not my bike; it’s my little sisters. She’s friends with Sara
Healey. You know, Dan Healey’s little sister? They live over
there.” I point to their house. “I was bringing it to her—oh my
God, Trevor. Do you not believe me? Are you seriously not
going to give me a ride?”
Trevor looks around. “Do you swear this isn’t a trick?”
Gotcha! “Yes! I swear I don’t have your name, okay?
Please just help me up. It really hurts.”
“First show me your ankle.”
“Trevor! You can’t see a sprained ankle!” I whimper and
make a show of trying to stand up, and Trevor finally turns the
car off and gets out. He stoops down and pulls me to my feet
and I try to make my body heavy. “Be gentle,” I tell him.
“See? I told you I didn’t have your name.”
Trevor pulls me up by my armpits, and over his shoulder
Chris creeps up behind him like a ninja. She dives forward,
both hands out, and claps them on his back hard. “I got you!”
she screams.
Trevor shrieks and drops me, and I narrowly escape falling
for real. “Damn it!” he yells.
Gleefully Chris says, “You’re done, sucker!” She and I
high-five and hug.
“Can you guys not celebrate in front of me?” he mutters.
Chris holds her hand out. “Now gimme gimme gimme.”
Sighing, Trevor shakes his head and says, “I can’t believe I
fell for that, Lara Jean.”
I pat him on the back. “Sorry, Trevor.”
“What if I had had your name?” he asks me. “What would
you have done then?”
Huh. I never thought of that. I shoot Chris an accusing
glare. “Wait a minute! What if he had had my name?”
“That was a chance we were willing to take,” she says
smoothly. “So Trev, what was your wish going to be?”
“You don’t have to say if you don’t want,” I tell him.
“I was gonna wish for tickets to a UVA football game.
McClaren’s dad has season tickets! Damn you, Chris.”
I feel bad. “Maybe he’ll take you anyway. You should
ask… .”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet and
hands her a small piece of folded cardboard. Before Chris
opens it, I quickly say, “Don’t forget, if it’s my name, you
can’t tag me. This is a demilitarized zone right here.”
Chris nods, opens the cardboard, and then grins.
I can’t resist. “Is it me?”
Chris stuffs it in her pocket.
“If it’s me, you can’t take me out!” I start to back away
from her. “We agreed to be allies this first round, and you
haven’t helped me with mine yet.”
“I know, I know. But I don’t have your name.”
I’m not entirely convinced. This is how she beat me another
time we played. She can’t be trusted, not in this game. I should
have remembered that. It’s why I always lose; I don’t look
down the line far enough.
“Lara Jean! I just told you, I don’t have your name!”
I shake my head. “Just get in the car, Chris. I’ll ride Kitty’s
bike home.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I’m playing to win this time.”
Chris shrugs. “Have it your way. I’m not helping you with
your kill, then, if you don’t trust me.”
“Fine by me,” I say, and swing my leg over Kitty’s bike.
38
PETER AND I ARE ONLY talking on the phone and at school
until one of us gets tagged out. It won’t be me. I’ve been super
careful. I drive myself to and from school. I look around
before I jump out of my car and run like the wind to our front
door. I’ve enlisted Kitty as my scout—she always gets out of
the car or the house first and makes sure the coast is clear for
me. I’ve already promised her that whatever I wish for if I
win, she’ll get a piece of.
But so far I’ve only been playing defense. I haven’t tried to
tag out John McClaren yet. It’s not because I’m afraid—not of
the game, anyway. I just don’t know what I’m going to say to
him. I’m embarrassed. Maybe I wouldn’t even need to say
anything; maybe I’m being presumptuous even thinking he
might be interested in me.
After lunch, Chris comes flying down the hall and skids to
a stop when she sees me and Lucas on the floor at our lockers.
Today we’re sharing a grape Popsicle. Chris sinks down to the
floor. “I’m out,” she says.
I gasp. “Who got you?”
“John freaking McClaren!” She snatches the Popsicle out of
Lucas’s hands and finishes it in a gulp.
“Rude,” Lucas says.
“Tell us everything,” I urge.
“John tailed me on the way to school this morning. I
stopped to get gas and he jumped out of the car as soon as my
back was turned. I didn’t even know he was following me!”
“Wait, how did he know you were going to stop for gas?”
Lucas asks. He knows all about the game, which will
hopefully come in handy if it comes down to Genevieve and
me, seeing as how he lives in her neighborhood.
“He siphoned gas out of my tank!”
“Whoa,” I breathe. It warms my heart that John is taking it
so seriously. I’d worried people wouldn’t, but it seems like
they are. I wonder what John’s wish is? It must be something
good to go to all this trouble.
“That’s legit,” Lucas says with a nod.
“I almost can’t be mad because it’s so hard-core.” She
blows her hair out of her face. “I’m just so pissed I can’t make
Gen give me our grandma’s car.”
Lucas’s eyes bulge. “That’s what you were going to wish
for? A car?”
“That car holds a lot of sentimental value for me,” Chris
says. “Our grandma used to take me to the beauty parlor with
her in it on Sunday afternoons. By all rights it should be mine.
Gen’s poisoned Granny’s mind against me!”
“What kind of car is it?” Lucas asks.
“It’s an old Jaguar.”
“What color?” he wants to know.
“Black.”
If I didn’t know Chris better, I would think that was a tear
forming in her eye. I put my arm around her. “Want me to buy
you another Popsicle?”
Chris shakes her head. “I’ve got to wear a crop top tonight.
I can’t have a gut.”
“So if you’re out, who does John have now?” Lucas asks.
“Kavinsky,” Chris says. “I haven’t been able to get him
because he’s always with fucking Gen, and I thought for sure
Gen had me.” She glances at me. “Sorry, LJ.”
Lucas and Chris are looking at me with pity eyes.
If Chris had Peter, and John took her out, that means John
has Peter now. Which means either Peter or Genevieve has
me. And since I have John, that means one of them has the
other—which means they must be in an alliance. That means
they’ve confided in each other, told each other who they have.
Swallowing, I say, “I knew from the start they were still
friends. And, she’s going through a hard time, you know?”
“What’s she going through?” Chris asks, one eyebrow way
high up.
“Peter said family stuff.” She looks blank. “So you haven’t
heard anything?”
“I mean, she was acting kind of weird at Aunt Wendy’s
birthday dinner last week. Like, more of a bitch than usual.
She barely said a word all night to anybody.” She shrugs. “So
something probably is up, but I don’t know what.” Chris
blows her hair out of her face. “Damn it. I can’t believe I’m
not getting that car.”
“I’ll take John McClaren out for you,” I vow. “Your death
will not be in vain.”
She gives me side-eye. “If you’d have gotten him out
sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“He lives half an hour away! I don’t even know how to get
to his house.”
“Whatever, I still partially blame you.” The bell rings and
Chris stands up. “Later, chicas.” She heads off down the hall,
in the opposite direction of her next class.
“She just called me chica,” Lucas says, frowning at me.
“Did you tell her I’m gay?”
“No!”
“Okay, because I told you that in confidence. Remember?”
“Lucas, of course I remember!” Now I’m nervous—did I
ever say anything to Chris? I’m almost one hundred percent
sure not, but he has me doubting myself all of a sudden.
“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “It’s whatever.” He rises to his
feet and offers his hand to help me up. He is ever the
gentleman.
39
IT’S MY FIRST OFFICIAL FRIDAY night cocktail hour at
Belleview and the night isn’t going as well as I’d hoped.
We’re already half an hour in and it’s just Stormy, Mr.
Morales, Alicia, and Nelson, who has Alzheimers and whose
nurse brought him in for a change of scenery. He is, however,
wearing a dapper navy sport coat with copper buttons. Not that
many people came when Margot was in charge, either—Mrs.
Maguire was a regular, but she was moved to a different
nursing home last month, and Mrs. Montero died over the
holidays. But I made such a fuss to Janette about how I would
breathe new life into cocktail hour, and now look at me. I feel
a little olive pit of dread in the bottom of my stomach, because
if Janette catches wind of how low the attendance is, she might
cancel Friday night social after all, and I had the funnest idea
for the next one—a USO party. If tonight’s a flop, there’s no
way she’ll let me run it. Also, throwing a party and having
four people show up, one of whom is dozing off, feels like a
huge failure. Stormy either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind; she
just keeps singing and playing the piano. The show must go
on, as they say.
I’m trying to keep busy, keep a smile on my face: Tra-la-la,
everything is loverly. I’ve lined up the glassware in neat rows
so it looks like a real bar and brought a bunch of things from
home—our one good tablecloth (no gravy stains, freshly
ironed), a little bud vase I put next to the plate of peanut butter
cookies (at first I hesitated at peanut butter, what with allergies
and all, but then I remembered that old people don’t have as
many food allergies), Mommy and Daddy’s silver ice bucket
with their monogram, a matching silver bowl with cut-up
lemons and limes.
I’ve already gone around knocking on doors of some of the
more active residents, but most weren’t home. I guess if
you’re active, you’re not staying in your apartment on a Friday
night.
I’m pouring salted peanuts into a heart-shaped crystal bowl
(a contribution from Alicia, who brought it out of storage,
along with her ice tongs) when John Ambrose McClaren walks
into the room in a light blue Oxford shirt and navy sport coat,
not dissimilar to Nelson’s! I nearly scream out loud. Clapping
my hands to my mouth, I drop to the floor, behind the table. If
he sees me, he might run off. I don’t know what he’s doing
here, but this is my perfect chance to take him out. I crouch
behind the table, running through options in my head.
And then the piano music stops and I hear Stormy call out,
“Lara Jean? Lara Jean, where are you? Come out from behind
the table. I want to introduce you to someone.”
Slowly, I rise to my feet. John McClaren is staring at me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me, tugging on his shirt
collar like it’s choking him.
“I volunteer here,” I say, still keeping a safe distance. Don’t
want to spook him.
Stormy claps her hands. “You two know each other?”
John says, “We’re friends, Grandma. We used to live in the
same neighborhood.”
“Stormy’s your grandma?” My mind is blown. So John is
her grandson she wanted to set me up with! Of all the nursing
homes in all the towns in all the world! My grandson looks
like a young Robert Redford. He does; he really does.
“She’s my great-grandmother by marriage,” John says.
Stormy’s eyes dart around the room. “Hush up! I don’t
want people knowing you’re my great-anything.”
John lowers his voice. “She was my great-grandpa’s second
wife.”
“My favorite of all my husbands,” Stormy says. “May he
rest in peace, that old buzzard.” She looks from John to me.
“Johnny, be a dear and bring me a vodka soda with lots of
lemons.” She sits back at the piano bench and starts to play
“When I Fall in Love.”
John starts toward me and I point at him. “Stop right there,
John Ambrose McClaren. Do you have my name?”
“No! I swear I don’t. I have—I’m not saying who I have.”
He pauses. “Wait a minute. Do you have mine?”
I shake my head, innocent as a little lost lamb. He still
looks suspicious, so I busy myself with making Stormy’s
drink. I know just how she likes it. I drop in three ice cubes, an
eight-second pour of vodka, and a splash of soda water. Then I
squeeze three lemon slices and drop them in the glass. “Here,”
I say, holding out the glass.
“You can put it on the table,” he says.
“John! I’m telling you, I don’t have your name!”
He shakes his head. “Table.”
I set the glass back down. “I can’t believe you don’t believe
me. I feel like I remember you being a trusting kind of person
who sees the good in people.”
Sober as a judge, John says, “Just stay on your side of
the table.”
Shoot. How am I supposed to take him out if he makes me
stay ten feet away all night?
Airily I say, “Fine by me. I don’t know if I believe you,
either, so! I mean, this is a pretty big coincidence, you
showing up here.”
“Stormy guilted me into coming!”
I snap my head in Stormy’s direction. She’s still playing the
piano, looking over at us with a big smile.
Mr. Morales sidles up to the bar and says, “May I have this
dance, Lara Jean?”
“You may,” I say. To John I warn, “Don’t you dare come
close to me.”
He throws his hands out like he’s warding me off. “Don’t
you come close to me!”
As Mr. Morales leads me in a slow dance, I press my face
against his shoulder to hide my smile. I’m really quite good at
this espionage thing. John McClaren is sitting on a love seat
now, watching Stormy play and chatting with Alicia. I’ve got
him right where I want him. I can’t even believe how lucky I
am. I’d been planning on showing up at his next Model UN
meeting, but this is so much better.
I’m thinking I’ll come up from behind him, take him by
surprise, when Stormy stands up and declares she needs a
piano break, she wants to dance with her grandson. I go turn
on the stereo and cue up the CD we decided on for her break.
John is protesting: “Stormy, I told you I don’t dance.” He
used to try and fake sick during the square-dancing unit in
gym—that’s how much he hates dancing.
Stormy doesn’t listen, of course. She pulls him off the love
seat and starts trying to teach him how to fox-trot. “Put your
hand on my waist,” she orders. “I didn’t wear heels to sit
behind a piano all night.” Stormy’s trying to teach him the
steps, and he keeps stepping on her feet. “Ouch!” she snaps.
I can’t stop giggling. Mr. Morales is too. He dances us over
closer. “May I cut in?” he asks.
“Please!” John practically pushes Stormy into Mr.
Morales’s arms.
“Johnny, be a gentleman and ask Lara Jean to dance,”
Stormy says as Mr. Morales twirls her.
John gives me a searching look, and I have a feeling he’s
still suspicious of me and whether or not I have his name.
“Ask her to dance,” Mr. Morales urges, grinning at me.
“She wants to dance, don’t you, Lara Jean?”
I shrug a sad kind of shrug. Wistful. The very picture of a
girl who is waiting to be asked to dance.
“I want to see the young people dance!” Norman yells.
John McClaren looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “If we’re
just swaying back and forth, I probably won’t step on your
feet.”
I feign hesitation and then nod. My pulse is racing. Target
acquired.
We step toward each other, and I thread my arms around his
neck, and he puts his around my waist, and we sway, off beat.
I’m short, not even five-two, and he looks just under six feet
tall, but in my heels we’re a good height for dance partners.
From across the room Stormy smiles knowingly at me, which I
pretend not to see. I should probably go ahead and take him
out before he’s onto me, but the residents are so enjoying
watching us dance. It couldn’t hurt to hold off just a few
minutes.
As we sway, I’m remembering the eighth grade formal,
how everyone paired up and no one asked me to go. I’d
thought Genevieve and I were riding over together, but then
she said Peters mom was taking them, and they were going to
a restaurant first, like a real date, and it would be awkward if I
tagged along. So it ended up being her and Peter and Sabrina
Fox and John. I’d hoped John McClaren would ask me for a
slow dance, but he didn’t; he didn’t dance with anyone. The
only guy who really danced was Peter. He was always in the
center of the cool-people dance circle.
John’s hand is pressed against my back, leading me, and I
think he’s forgotten all about the game. I’ve got him in my
crosshairs now.
“You’re not so bad,” I tell him. Song’s halfway over. I’d
better hop to the beat. I’ve got you in five, four, three, two—
“So … you and Kavinsky, huh?”
He’s distracted me completely, and I’ve forgotten all about
the game for a moment. “Yeah . . .”
Clearing his throat, he says, “I was pretty surprised that you
guys were together.”
“Why? Because I’m not his type?” I say it casually, like it’s
nothing, a fact, but it stings like a little pebble thrown directly
at my heart.
“No, you are.”
“Then why?” I’m pretty sure John’s going to say “because I
didn’t think he was your type,” just like Josh did.
He doesn’t answer right away. “That day you came to
Model UN, I tried to follow you out to the parking lot, but you
were already gone. Then I got your letter, and I wrote you
back, and you wrote me back, and then you invited me to the
tree-house thing. I guess I didn’t know what to think. You
know what I mean?” He looks at me expectantly, and I feel
like it’s important that I say yes.
All the blood rushes to my face, and I hear a pounding in
my ears, which I belatedly realize is the sound of my heart
beating really fast. My body is still dancing, though.
He keeps talking. “Maybe it was dumb to think that,
because all that stuff was such a long time ago.”
All what stuff? I want to know, but it wouldn’t be right to
ask. “Do you know what I remember?” I ask suddenly.
“What?”
“The time Trevors shorts split open when you guys were
playing basketball. And everybody was laughing so hard that
Trevor started getting mad. But not you. You got on your bike
and you rode all the way home and brought Trevor a pair of
shorts. I was really impressed by that.”
He has a faint half smile on his face. “Thanks.”
Then we’re both quiet and still dancing. He’s an easy
person to be quiet with. “John?”
“Hmm?”
I look up at him. “I have to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’ve got you. I mean, I have your name. In the game.”
“Seriously?” John looks genuinely disappointed, which
makes me feel guilty.
“Seriously. Sorry.” I press my hands against his shoulders.
“Tag.”
“Well, now you have Kavinsky. I was really looking
forward to taking him out, too. I had a whole plan and
everything.”
All eagerness I ask, “What was your plan?”
“Why should I tell the girl who just tagged me out?” he
challenges, but it’s a weak challenge, just for show, and we
both know he’s going to tell me.
I play along. “Come on, Johnny. I’m not just the girl who
tagged you out. I’m your pen pal.”
John laughs a little. “All right, all right. I’ll help you.”
The song ends and we step apart. “Thanks for the dance,” I
say. After all this time, I finally know what it’s like to dance
with John Ambrose McClaren. “So what would you have
asked for if you won?”
He doesn’t hesitate even one beat. “Your peanut butter
chocolate cake with my name written in Reese’s Pieces.”
I stare at him in surprise. That’s what he would have wished
for? He could have anything and he wants my cake? I give
him a curtsy. “I’m so honored.”
“Well, it was a really good cake,” he says.
40
ON THE PHONE A FEW nights later, Peter suddenly says,
“You have me, don’t you?”
“No!” I haven’t told him I took out John over the weekend.
I don’t want him—or Genevieve, for that matter—to have any
extra info. It’s down to the three of us now.
“So you do have me!” He lets out a groan. “I don’t want to
play this game anymore. It’s making me lonely and really
frustrated. I haven’t seen you outside of school for a week!
When is this going to be over?”
“Peter, I don’t have you. I have John.” I feel a little guilty
for lying, but this is how winners play this game. You can’t
second-guess yourself.
There’s a silence on the other end. Then he says, “So are
you going to drive over to his house to tag him out? He lives
in the middle of nowhere. I could take you if you want.”
“I haven’t figured out my game plan yet,” I say. “Who do
you have?” I know it has to be me or Genevieve.
He gets quiet. “I’m not saying.”
“Well, have you told anyone else?” Like, say, Genevieve?
“No.”
Hmm. “Okay, well, I just told you, so you obviously owe
me that same courtesy.”
Peter bursts out, “I didn’t make you, you offered up that
information yourself, and look, if it was a lie and you have me,
please just freaking take me out already! I’m begging you.
Come to my house right now, and I’ll let you sneak up to my
room. I’ll be a sitting duck for you if it means I can see you
again.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t want to win like that. When I get your name, I
want to have the satisfaction of knowing I beat you fair and
square. My first ever Assassins win can’t be tainted.” I pause.
“And besides, your house is a safe zone.”
Peter lets out an aggravated sigh. “Are you at least coming
to my lacrosse game on Friday?”
His lacrosse game! That’s the perfect place to take him out.
I try to keep my voice calm and even as I say, “I can’t come.
My dad has a date, and he needs me to watch Kitty.” A lie, but
Peter doesn’t know that.
“Well, can’t you bring her? She’s been asking to go to one
of my games.”
I think fast. “No, because she has a piano lesson after
school.”
“Since when does Kitty play the piano?”
“Recently, in fact. She heard from our neighbor that it helps
with training puppies; it calms them down.” I bite my lip. Will
he buy it? I hurry to add, “I promise I’ll be at the next game no
matter what.”
Peter groans, this time even louder. “You’re killing me,
Covey.”
Soon, my dear Peter.
I will surprise him at the game; I’ll get all decked out in our
school colors; I’ll even paint his jersey number on my face.
He’ll be so happy to see me, he won’t suspect a thing!
I can’t fully explain why this game of Assassins is so
important to me. I only know that with each passing day I
want it more and more—the win. I want to beat Genevieve,
yes, but it’s more than that. Maybe it’s to prove that I’ve
changed too: I’m not a soft little marshmallow; I’ve got some
fight in me.
After Peter and I hang up, I text John my idea, and he offers
to drive me to the game. It’s at his school. I ask if he’s sure he
doesn’t mind coming all the way to get me, and he says it’ll be
worth it to see Kavinsky get taken down. I’m relieved, because
the last thing I need is to get lost on the way there.
After school on Friday, I rush home to get ready. I change into
school colors—light blue T-shirt, white shorts, white and light
blue striped knee socks, a blue ribbon in my hair. I paint a big
15 on my cheek and outline it with white eyeliner.
I run outside as soon as John pulls into our driveway. He’s
wearing his faded old Orioles baseball cap, pulled down low.
He eyes me as I climb inside.
Smiling, John says, “You look like a rally girl.”
I tap him on the bill of his hat. “You used to wear this, like,
every day that one summer.”
As he backs out of our driveway, John grins like he has a
secret. It’s contagious. Now I’m smiling too, and I don’t even
know why. “What? Why are you smiling?” I ask, pulling up
my knee socks.
“Nothing,” he says.
I jab him in the side. “Come on!”
“My mom gave me a really bad haircut at the beginning of
summer, and I was embarrassed. I never let my mom cut my
hair again after that.” He checks the time on the dashboard.
“What time did you say the game started? Five?”
“Yup!” I’m practically bouncing up and down in my seat
I’m so excited. Peter will be proud of me for pulling this off, I
know he will.
We get to John’s school in under half an hour, and there’s
still time before the school bus arrives, so John jogs inside to
get us snacks out of the vending machine. He comes back with
two cans of soda and a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips to share.
He hasn’t been back long before a tall black guy in a
lacrosse uniform comes jogging over to the car. He calls out,
“McClaren!” He bends down and puts his face up close to the
window, and he and John bump fists. “Are you coming to
Danica’s after this?” he asks.
John glances over at me and then says, “Nah, I can’t.”
His friend notices me then; his eyes widen. “Who’s this?”
“I’m Lara Jean, I don’t go here,” I say, which is dumb,
because he probably knows that already.
“You’re Lara Jean!” He nods enthusiastically. “I’ve heard
about you. You’re why McClaren’s hanging around a nursing
home, am I right?”
I blush and John laughs an easy sort of laugh. “Get outta
here, Avery.”
Avery reaches over John and shakes my hand. “Nice to
meet you, Lara Jean. See you around.” Then he runs off
toward the field. As we sit and wait, a few more people come
up to John’s car to say hi, and I see it’s just like I thought: He
has lots of friends, lots of girls who admire him. A group of
girls walks by the car, toward the field, and one in particular
stares into the car and right at me, questions in her eyes. John
doesn’t seem to notice. He is asking me what TV shows I
watch, what I’m going to do for spring break in April, summer
vacation. I tell him about Daddy’s idea to go to Korea.
“I have a funny story about your dad,” John says, looking at
me sideways.
I groan. “Oh no. What did he do?”
“It wasn’t him; it was me.” He clears his throat. “This is
embarrassing.”
I rub my hands together in anticipation.
“So, I went over to your house to ask you to eighth grade
formal. I had this whole extravagant plan.”
“You never asked me to formal!”
“I know, I’m getting to that part. Are you going to let me
tell the story or not?”
“You had a whole extravagant plan,” I prompt.
John nods. “So I gathered a bunch of sticks and some
flowers and I arranged them into the letters FORMAL? in front
of your window. But your dad came home while I was in the
middle of it, and he thought I was going around cleaning
people’s yards. He gave me ten bucks, and I lost my nerve and
I just went home.”
I laugh. “I can’t believe you did that.” I can’t believe
that this almost happened to me. What would that have felt
like, to have a boy do something like that for me? In the whole
history of my letters, of my liking boys, not once has a boy
liked me back at the same time as I liked him. It was always
me alone, longing after a boy, and that was fine, that was safe.
But this is new. Or old. Old and new, because it’s the first time
I’m hearing it.
“The biggest regret of eighth grade,” John says, and that’s
when I remember—how Peter once told me that John’s biggest
regret was not asking me to formal, how elated I was when he
said it, and then how he quickly backtracked and said he was
only joking.
The school bus pulls up then. “Showtime,” I say. I’m giddy
as we watch the players get off the bus—I see Gabe, Darrell,
no Peter yet. But then the last person gets off the bus and still
no Peter. “That’s weird …”
“Could he have driven his own car?” John asks.
I shake my head. “He never does.” I grab my phone out of
my bag and text him.
Where are you?
No reply. Something’s wrong, I know it. Peter never misses
a game. He even played when he had the flu.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell John, and I jump out of the car
and run for the field. The guys are warming up. I find Gabe on
the sideline lacing his cleats. I call out, “Gabe!”
He looks up, surprised. “Large! What’s up?”
Breathlessly I ask him, “Where’s Peter?”
“I don’t know,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.
“He told Coach he had a family emergency. It sounded pretty
legit. Kavinsky wouldn’t miss a game if it wasn’t important.”
I’m already running back to the car. As soon as I’m in, I
pant, “Can you drive me to Peters?”
I see her car first. Parked on the street in front of his house.
The next thing I see is the two of them, standing together on
the street for all to see. He has his arms wrapped around her;
she is leaning in to him like she can’t stand on her own two
feet. Her face is buried in his chest. He is saying something in
her ear, petting her hair tenderly.
It all happens in the span of seconds, but it feels like time
goes in slow-motion, like I’m moving through water. I think I
stop breathing; my head goes fuzzy; everything around me
blurs. How many times have I seen them stand just like that?
Too many to count.
“Keep driving,” I manage to say to John, and he obeys. He
drives right past Peters house; they don’t even look up. Thank
God they don’t look up. Quietly I say, “Can you take me
home?” I can’t even look at John. I hate that he saw too.
John begins, “It might not be …” Then he stops. “It was
just a hug, Lara Jean.”
“I know.” Whatever it was, he missed his game for her.
We’re almost at my house when he finally asks, “What are
you going to do?”
I’ve been thinking it over this whole ride. “I’m going to tell
Peter to come over tonight, and then I’m going to tag him
out.”
“You’re still playing?” He sounds surprised.
I stare out the window, at all the familiar places. “Sure. I’m
going to take him out and then I’m going to take Genevieve
out and I’m going to win.”
“Why do you want to win so badly?” he asks me. “Is it the
prize?”
I don’t answer him. If I open my mouth, I will cry.
We’re at my house now. I mumble, “Thanks for the ride,”
and I get out of the car before John can reply. I run into the
house, kick off my shoes, and run up the stairs to my room,
where I lie down and stare at the ceiling. I put glow-in-the-
dark stars up there years ago, and I scraped most of them off
except for one, which hung on tight as a stalactite.
Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight. I wish I
may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. I wish not to
cry.
I text Peter: Come over after you’re finished hanging out with Genevieve.
He writes back one word: Okay.
Just “okay.” No denials, no explanations or clarifications.
All this time I’ve been making excuses for him. I’ve been
trusting Peter and not trusting my own gut. Why am I the one
making all these concessions, pretending to be okay with
something I’m not actually okay with? Just to keep him?
In the contract we said we’d always tell each other the
truth. We said we’d never break each others hearts. So I guess
two times now he’s broken his word.
41
PETER AND I ARE SITTING on my front porch; I can hear
the TV on in the living room. Kitty’s watching a movie. There
is an interminably long silence between us, only the sound of
crickets chirping.
He speaks first. “It isn’t what you think, Lara Jean; it really
isn’t.”
I take a moment to gather my thoughts together, to string
them into something that makes any kind of sense. “When we
first started all this, I was really happy just being at home with
my sisters and my dad. It was cozy. And then we started
hanging out, and it was like it was like you brought me out
into the world.” At this his eyes go soft. “At first it was scary,
but then I liked it too. Part of me wants to just stay next to you
forever. I could easily do that. I could love you forever.”
He tries to make his voice light. “Then just do that.”
“I can’t.” I take a shaky breath. “I saw you two. You were
holding her; she was in your arms. I saw everything.”
“If you’d seen everything, you’d know that it wasn’t
anything like what you’re saying,” he begins. I just stare at
him, and his face falls. “Come on. Don’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it. It’s the only way I can look at you right
now.”
“Gen needed me today, so I was there for her, but just as a
friend.”
“It’s no use, Peter. She laid claim to you a long time ago,
and there’s just no room for me here.” My eyesight is going
fuzzy with tears. I wipe my eyes with my jacket sleeve. I can’t
be here anymore, around him. It’s hurting me too much to look
at his face. “I deserve better than that, you know? I deserve
I deserve to be someone’s number one girl.”
“You are.”
“No, I’m not. She is. You’re still protecting her, her secret,
whatever that is. From what, though? From me? What have I
ever done to her?”
He spreads his hands helplessly. “You took me away from
her. You became my most important person.”
“But I’m not, though. That’s the thing. She is.” He sputters
and tries to deny it, but there’s no use. How could I believe
him when the truth is right in front of me? “You know how I
know she’s your most important person? You pick her every
time.”
“That’s bullshit!” he explodes. “When I found out she took
that video, I told her that if she ever hurt you again, we were
done.” Peters still talking, but I don’t hear anything more that
comes out of his mouth.
He knew.
He knew it was Genevieve who posted that video; he knew
and he never told me.
Peter isn’t talking anymore; he’s peering at me. “Lara Jean?
What’s the matter?”
“You knew?”
His face goes gray. “No! It’s not like how you think. I
haven’t known this whole time.”
I wet my lips and press them together. “So at some point
you found out the truth, and you didn’t tell me.” It’s hard to
breathe. “You knew how upset I was, and you kept defending
her, and then you found out the truth, and you never told me.”
Peter starts talking very fast. “Let me explain it. It’s only
recently I found out Gen was behind the video. I asked her
about it, and she broke down and admitted everything to me.
That night at the ski trip, she saw us in the hot tub; she took
the video. She’s the one who sent it to Anonybitch and played
it at the assembly.”
I knew it, and I let myself go along with Peter and pretend
not to know what I knew. And for what? For him?
“She’s been really fucked up over stuff she’s going through
with her family, and she was jealous, and she took it out on
you and me—”
“Like what? What is she going through?” I don’t ask
expecting an answer; I know he won’t tell me. I’m asking to
prove a point.
He looks pained. “You know I can’t tell you. Why do you
keep putting me in a position where I have to say no to you?”
“You put yourself in that position. You have her name,
don’t you? In the game, you have her name and she has mine.”
“Who cares about the stupid game? Covey, we’re talking
about us.”
“I care about the stupid game.” Peter is loyal to her first, me
second. It’s first Genevieve, then me. That is the deal. That’s
always been the deal. And I’m sick of it. Something clicks in
my head. Suddenly I ask him, “Why was Genevieve outside
that night at the ski trip? All of her friends were in the lodge.”
Peter closes his eyes briefly. “Why does it matter?”
I think back to that night in the woods. How he looked
surprised to see me. Startled, even. He wasn’t waiting for me.
He was waiting for her. He still is. “If I hadn’t gone out to
apologize that night, would you have kissed her?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know.”
Those three words confirm everything for me. They take
my breath away. “If I win do you know what I would wish
for?” Don’t say it, don’t say it. Don’t say the thing you can’t
take back. “I’d wish we never started any of this.” The words
echo in my head, in the air.
He sucks in his breath. His eyes get small; so does his
mouth. I’ve hurt him. Is that what I wanted? I thought so, but
now, looking at his face, I’m not sure. “You don’t have to win
the game to have that, Covey. You can have that right now if
you want it.”
I reach out, put both hands on his chest. My eyes fill.
“You’re out. Who do you have?” I already know the answer.
“Genevieve.”
I stand up. “Bye, Peter.” And then I walk into my house and
shut the door. I don’t look back, not once.
We broke so easily. Like it was nothing. Like we were
nothing. Does that mean it was never meant to be in the first
place? That we were an accident of fate? If we were meant to
be, how could we both walk away just like that?
I guess the answer is, we weren’t.
42
PETER AND ME, OUR BREAKUP, it’s all so very high
school. By that I mean it’s ephemeral. Even this pain will be
fleeting, finite. Even the sharp sting of this betrayal I should
hold on to and remember and cherish, because it is my first
true breakup. It’s all just part of it, the process of falling in
love. And it’s not like I thought we’d stay together forever;
we’re only sixteen and seventeen. One day I will look back on
all of this fondly.
This is what I keep telling myself, even as tears are filling
my eyes, even as I’m lying in bed that night, crying myself to
sleep. I cry until my cheeks sting from wiping away my tears.
This well of sadness, it starts with Peter but it doesn’t end
there.
Because over and over one thought runs in my head on a
loop: I miss my mother. I miss my mother. I miss her so much.
If she were here, she would bring me a cup of Night-Night tea,
she would sit at the foot of my bed. She would put my head in
her lap, and run her fingers through my hair, and whisper in
my ear, It will all be fine, Lara Jean. It will all be fine. And I
would believe her, because her words were always true.
Oh, Mommy. How I miss you. Why aren’t you here, when I
need you most?
So far I’ve saved a napkin Peter drew a little sketch of my face
on, a ticket stub from the first time we went to the movies, the
poem he gave me on Valentine’s Day. The necklace. Of course
the necklace. I haven’t been able to bring myself to take it off.
Not yet.
I lie in bed all day Saturday, only getting up for snacks and
to let Jamie out to pee in the backyard. I fast-forward to the
sad parts of romantic comedies. What I should be doing is
coming up with a plan to take Genevieve out, but I can’t. It
hurts every time I think of her, of the game, of Peter most of
all. I resolve to put it out of my mind until I can really
concentrate.
John texts me once to see if I’m all right, but I can’t bring
myself to reply. I put that off for later too.
The only time I leave the house is on Sunday afternoon to
go to Belleview for a party planning committee meeting. With
a little cajoling on Stormy’s part, Janette has okayed my USO
party idea, and the show must go on, breakups be damned.
Stormy says the whole retirement community is abuzz
about it. She’s particularly excited because there’s been talk
that Ferncliff, the other big nursing home in town, might bus
over some of their residents. Stormy says they have at least
one eligible widower that she knows from the seniors book
club at the local library. This gets the other female residents
stirred up. “He’s a very distinguished silver,” she keeps telling
everyone. “He still drives, too!” I make sure to spread that info
around myself. Anything to build excitement.
At the party everyone will get five “war bonds,” which you
can use for a cup of whiskey punch, a little flag pin, or a
dance. That was Mr. Morales’s idea. Actually, his exact idea
was one war bond for a dance with a lady, but we all slapped
him down for being sexist and said that it should be a dance
with a man or a lady. Alicia, pragmatic as ever, said, “There
will be many more women than men, so it’s the women who
will be in charge anyway.”
I’ve been going from apartment to apartment asking people
to lend pictures from the forties if they have them, especially
in uniform or at a USO party. One resident sniffed at me and
said, “Excuse me, but I was six in 1945!” Hastily I told her
that pictures of her parents would be welcome too, of course—
but she was already closing the door in my face.
Scrapbooking to the Oldies has turned into a de facto dance-
planning committee. I printed out war bonds, and Mr. Morales
is using my paper cutter to cut them. Maude, who is new to the
group and is Internet savvy, is clipping news articles from the
war to decorate the refreshments table. Her friend Claudia is
working on the playlist.
Alicia will have a little table of her own. She’s making a
paper-crane garland, all different-colored papers, lilac and
peach and turquoise and floral. Stormy balked at the deviation
from the red, white, and blue theme, but Alicia held firm and I
backed her up. Classy as always, her pictures of Japanese
Americans in internment camps are in fancy silver frames.
“Those pictures are really going to bring the mood down,”
Stormy stage-whispers to me.
Alicia whirls around. “These pictures are meant to educate
the ignorant.”
Stormy gathers herself up to her full five feet three inches,
five-six in heels. “Alicia, did you just call me ignorant?” I
wince. Stormy’s been putting a lot of work into this party, and
she’s been a little extra Stormy lately.
I just can’t take another fight between them right now. I’m
about to plead for peace when Alicia fixes Stormy with a
steely look and says, “If the muumuu fits.”
Stormy and I both gasp. Then Stormy stalks over to Alicia’s
table and sweeps Alicia’s paper cranes to the floor with a
flourish. Alicia screams, and I gasp again. Everyone else in the
room looks up. “Stormy!”
“You’re taking her side? She just called me ignorant!
Stormy Sinclair might be a lot of things, but I am not
ignorant.”
“I’m not taking anybody’s side,” I say, bending down to
pick up the paper cranes.
“If you’re taking a side, it should be mine,” Alicia says. She
thrusts her chin in Stormy’s direction. “She thinks she’s some
grand dame, but she is a child, throwing a tantrum over a
party.”
“A child!” Stormy shrieks.
“Will you two please stop fighting?” To my mortification,
tears spurt out the corners of my eyes. “I can’t take it today.”
My voice trembles. “I really just can’t.”
They exchange a look, and then they both rush to my side.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” Stormy croons. “It must be a boy.”
“Sit, sit,” Alicia says. They lead me over to the couch and
sit on either side of me.
“Everybody, get out!” Stormy yells, and the others scatter.
“Now you tell us what’s wrong.”
I wipe my eyes with the corner of my shirtsleeve. “Peter
and I broke up.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud.
Stormy gasps. “You and Mr. Handsome broke up! Was it
over another boy?” She looks hopeful, and I know she is
thinking of John.
“It wasn’t over another boy. It’s complicated.”
“Darling, it’s never that complicated,” Stormy says. “In my
day—”
Alicia glares at her. “Will you just let her talk?”
“Peter never got over his ex-girlfriend, Genevieve,” I say,
sniffling. “She was the one who posted that video of us in the
hot tub, and Peter found out and he didn’t tell me.”
“Perhaps he wanted to spare your feelings,” Alicia says.
Vehemently Stormy shakes her head, so hard her earrings
whoosh. “The boy is a dog, pure and simple. He ought to treat
you like a queen, not this other girl Genevieve.”
Alicia accuses, “You just want Lara Jean to date your great-
grandson.”
“So what if I do!” With a gleam in her eye she says, “Say,
Lara Jean. Have you got any plans tonight?”
At that we all laugh. “I can’t think about any boy but Peter
right now,” I say. “Do you still remember your first love?”
Stormy’s had so many—could she possibly? But she nods.
“Garrett O’Leary. I was fifteen and he was eighteen and we
only ever had a dance, but the way I felt when he looked at me
…” She shivers.
I look to my left at Alicia. “And yours was your husband,
Phillip, right?”
To my surprise she shakes her head. “My first love was
named Albert. He was my older brothers best friend. I
thought I would marry him. But it was not to be. I met my
Phillip.” She smiles. “Phillip was the love of my life. And yet I
never forgot Albert. How young I was once! Stormy, can you
believe we were ever so young?”
Stormy does not give her usual blithe reply. Her eyes go
moist, and as softly as I’ve ever heard her speak she says, “It’s
all a million lifetimes ago. And yet.”
“And yet,” Alicia echoes.
They both smile at me fondly, with such true and genuine
affection that new tears come to my eyes. “What will I do now
that Peters not my boyfriend anymore?” I wonder out loud.
“You’ll just do what you did before he was your
boyfriend,” Alicia says. “You’ll go about your day, and you
will miss him at first, but over time it will ease. It will lessen.”
She reaches out, touches her papery hand to my cheek. A
smile plays at her lips. “All you need is time, and you, little
one, have all the time in the world.”
It’s a comforting thought, but I don’t know if I believe it is
true, not completely. I think that time might be different for
young people. The minutes longer, stronger, more vibrant. All
I know is that every minute without him feels interminably
long, like I’m waiting, just waiting for him to come back to
me. I, Lara Jean, know he isn’t, but my heart doesn’t seem to
understand it’s over.
After, energies renewed, tears dried, I am with Janette in her
office, going over party details. When she offhandedly
mentions the sitting room, I freeze. “Janette, the sitting room
isn’t going to be big enough.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. The main activities room is
booked for bingo. They have a standing Friday night
reservation.”
“But this party is a huge event! Can’t the bingo people be in
the sitting room just for one night?”
“Lara Jean, I can’t move bingo. People from all over the
community come here for that, including the leasing agent’s
own mother. There are a lot of politics at play here. My hands
are tied.”
“Well, what about the dining room?” We could move all the
tables and set up the dance floor at the center of the room and
then put the refreshments on a long table against the wall. It
could work.
Janette gives me a look like Girl, please. “And who’s going
to put away all the tables and chairs? You?”
“Well, me, and I’m sure I could round up some volunteers
—”
“And have one of the residents put out their back and sue
the home? No, gracias.”
“We wouldn’t need to put away all of the tables, just half.
Couldn’t you get the staff to help?” Janette’s already shaking
her head when inspiration hits me. “Janette, I heard that
Ferncliff might bus over some of their residents. Ferncliff.
They already call themselves the premier retirement
community of the Blue Ridge Mountains.”
“Oh my God, Ferncliff is a dump. The people who work at
that place are garbage. I have a masters. ‘Premier retirement
community of the Blue Ridge Mountains’? Ha! My ass.”
Now I just need to bring it home. “I’m telling you, Janette,
if this dance isn’t up to par, it’s going to make us look like
fools. We can’t let that happen. I want those Ferncliff residents
to walk or wheel out of here wishing they were Belleview!”
“All right, all right. I’ll get the janitors to help set up the
dining room.” Janette shakes her finger at me. “You’re like a
dog with a bone, girl.”
“You won’t regret it,” I promise her. “For the pictures
alone. We’ll put them all over the website. Everyone will want
to be us!”
At this Janette’s eyes narrow with satisfaction, and I let out
the breath I’ve been holding. This party has to go right. It just
has to. It is my one bright spot.
43
SUNDAY NIGHT I CURL MY hair. Curling your hair is an
intrinsically hopeful act. I like to curl mine at night and think
about all the things that could happen tomorrow. Also, it
generally looks much better slept on and not so poofy.
I’ve got half of it clipped and I’m almost done with one
side when Chris comes climbing through my window. “I’m
supposed to be grounded right now, so I have to wait until my
mom falls asleep before I go home,” she says, taking off her
motorcycle jacket. “Are you still depressed over Kavinsky?”
I wind another section of hair around the curling iron
barrel. “Yes. I mean, it hasn’t even been forty-eight hours yet.”
Chris puts her arm around me. “I hate to say it, but this has
been a train wreck from the start.”
I give her a wounded look. “Thanks a lot.”
“Well, it’s true. The way you guys got together was weird,
and then the whole hot tub video thing.” She takes the curling
iron from me and starts curling her own hair. “Although, I will
say that it was probably good for you to go through all that.
You were really sheltered, hon. You can be very judgmental.”
I snatch the curling iron back from her and make like I’m
going to bonk her over the head with it. “Are you here to cheer
me up or to tell me all of my flaws?”
“Sorry! I’m just saying.” She offers me a cheery smile.
“Don’t be sad for too long. It’s not your style. There are other
guys besides Kavinsky. Guys who aren’t my cousin’s sloppy
seconds. Guys like John McClaren. He’s hot. I’d go for him
myself if he wasn’t into you.”
Softly, I say, “I can’t think about anyone else right now.
Peter and I just broke up.”
“There’s heat between you and Johnny boy. I saw it with
my own two eyes at the time capsule thing. He wants you.”
She bumps her shoulder against mine. “You liked him before.
Maybe there’s still something there.”
I ignore her and keep curling my hair, one lock at a time.
Peter still sits in front of me in chemistry. I didn’t know you
could miss someone even more acutely when they’re only a
few feet away. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t look at me, not
even once. I didn’t fully comprehend what a big part of my life
he’d become. He’d become so familiar to me. And now
he’s just gone. Not gone, still here, just not available to me,
which might be even worse. For a minute there it was really
good. It was really, really good. Wasn’t it good? Maybe really,
really good things aren’t meant to last for too long; maybe
that’s what makes them all the more sweet, the temporariness
of them. Maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better. It’s
working, barely. Barely is enough for now.
After class is over, Peter lingers at his desk, and then he
turns around and says, “Hey.”
My heart leaps. “Hey.” I have this sudden, wild thought that
if he wants me back, I’ll say yes. Forget my pride, forget
Genevieve, forget it all.
“So I want my necklace back,” he says. “Obviously.”
My fingers fly to the heart locket hanging from around my
neck. I wanted to take it off this morning, but I couldn’t bear
to.
Now I have to give it back? Stormy has a whole box of
trinkets and tokens from old boyfriends. I didn’t think I’d have
to return my one token from a boy. But it was expensive, and
Peter is practical. He could get his money back, and his mom
could resell it. “Of course,” I say, fumbling with the clasp.
“I didn’t mean you had to give it back right this second,” he
says, and my hand stills. Maybe he’ll let me keep it awhile
longer, or even forever. “But I’ll take it.”
I can’t get the clasp undone, and it’s taking forever, and it’s
excruciating because he’s just standing there. Finally he comes
up behind me and pulls my hair away from my neck so it rests
on one shoulder. It might be my imagination, but I think I hear
his heart beating. His is beating and mine feels like it’s
breaking.
44
KITTY FLIES INTO MY BEDROOM. I’m at my desk, doing
homework. It’s been so long since I sat here and did
homework; Peter and I usually go to Starbucks after school.
Life is lonely already.
“Did you and Peter break up?” Kitty demands.
I flinch. “Who told you?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just answer the question.”
“Well … yes.”
“You don’t deserve him,” she spits out.
I reel backward in my seat. “What? You’re my sister—it’s
not fair for you to take Peters side. You haven’t even heard
my side. Not that you should have to. Don’t you know that
you never take a side against your sister?”
She purses her lips. “What’s your side?”
“My side is, it’s complicated. Peter still has feelings for
Genevieve—”
“He doesn’t think of her that way anymore. Don’t make an
excuse.”
“You didn’t see what I saw, Kitty!” I burst out.
“What did you see?” she challenges, chin thrust out like a
weapon. “Tell me.”
“It isn’t just what I saw. It’s what I knew all along. Just—
never mind. You wouldn’t understand it, Kitty.”
“Did you see him kiss her? Did you?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing.” She squints at me. “Does this have anything
to do with that guy with the weird name? John Amberton
McClaren or whatever?”
“No! Why would you say that?” I let out a gasp. “Wait a
minute! Have you been reading my letters again?”
She screws up her face, and I know she has, the fiend.
“Don’t change the subject! Do you like him or not?”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with John McClaren. It’s
just about me and Peter.”
I want to tell her that he knew it was Genevieve who made
that video, spread it around. He knew and he still protected
her. But I can’t mar her little-girl notion of who Peter is. It
would be too cruel a thing to do to her. “Kitty, it doesn’t
matter. Peter still has feelings for Genevieve, and I’ve always
known it. And besides, what’s even the point of a serious thing
with Peter when we’re only going to break up like Margot and
Josh did? High school romances hardly ever last, you know.
And for a good reason. We’re too young to be so serious.”
Even as I’m saying the words, tears are leaking out the corners
of my eyes.
Kitty softens. She puts her arm around me. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying. I’m tearing up a little.”
Sighing heavily, she says, “If this is love, no thanks. I don’t
want any part of it. When I’m older, I’m just going to do my
own thing.”
“What does that mean?” I ask her.
Kitty shrugs. “If I like a boy, fine, I’ll date him, but I’m not
going to sit at home and cry over him.”
“Kitty, don’t act like you never cry.”
“I cry over important things.”
“You cried the other night because Daddy wouldn’t let you
stay up to watch TV!”
“Yes, well, that was important to me.”
I sniffle. “I don’t know why I’m arguing over this stuff with
you.” She’s too little to understand. Part of me hopes she never
does. It was better when I didn’t.
That night, Daddy and I are doing the dishes when he clears
his throat and says, “So Kitty told me about the big breakup.
How are you holding up?”
I rinse off a glass and set it in the dishwasher. “Kitty has
such a big mouth. I was going to tell you about it later.”
Maybe deep down I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.
“Do you want to talk about it? I can make some Night-
Night tea. Not as good as Mommy’s, but still.”
“Maybe later,” I say, just to be kind. His version of Night-
Night tea isn’t the best.
He puts his arm around my shoulders. “It’ll get easier, I
promise. Peter Kavinsky isn’t the only boy in the world.”
Sighing, I say, “I just don’t want to hurt like this ever
again.”
“There’s no way to protect yourself against heartbreak,
Lara Jean. That’s just a part of life.” He kisses me on the top
of my head. “Go upstairs and rest. I’ll finish up here.”
“Thanks, Daddy.” I leave him alone in the kitchen,
humming to himself as he dries a pan with a dishcloth.
My dad said Peter isn’t the only boy in the world. I know
this is true, of course it’s true. But look at Daddy. My mom
was the only girl in the world for him. If she wasn’t, he’d have
found somebody new by now. Maybe he’s been trying to
protect himself from heartbreak too. Maybe we’re more alike
than I ever realized.
45
IT’S RAINING AGAIN. I’D HAD the thought that I might take
Kitty and Jamie to the park after school, but that’s out now.
Instead I sit in bed and curl my hair and watch the rain shoot
down like silver pellets. Weather to match my mood, I
suppose.
In the midst of our breakup, I forgot about the game. Well,
now I’m remembering all too well. I will win. I will take her
out. She can’t have Peter and win the game. It’s too unfair.
And I will think of some perfect wish, some perfect something
to take from her. If only I knew what to wish for!
I need help. I call Chris, and she doesn’t pick up. I’m about
to call again, but at the last second I text John:
Will you help me take out Genevieve?
It takes a few minutes for him to write back.
It would be my honor.
John settles into the couch and leans forward, looking at me
intently. “All right, so how do you want to do this? Do you
want to flush her out? Go black ops on her?”
I set down a glass of sweet tea in front of him. Sitting next
to him, I say, “I think we have to run surveillance on her first. I
don’t even know what her schedule is like.” And if in
winning this game, I find out her big secret, well, that would
be a nice bonus.
“I like where your head is at,” John says, tipping his head
back and drinking his tea.
“I know where they keep the emergency key. Chris and I
had to pick up a vacuum cleaner from her house once. What if
… what if I try to get under her skin? Like I could leave a note
on her pillow that says I’m watching you. That would really
creep her out.”
John nearly chokes on his iced tea. “Wait, what would that
even get you?”
“I don’t know. You’re the expert at this!”
“Expert? How am I an expert? If I was really any good, I’d
still be in the game.”
“There’s no way you could have known I’d be at
Belleview,” I point out. “That was just your bad luck.”
“We have a lot of coincidences. Belleview. You being at
Model UN that day.”
I look down at my hands. “That wasn’t a total
coincidence. It actually wasn’t a coincidence at all. I went
there looking for you. I wanted to see how you turned out. I
knew you’d be in Model UN. I remembered how much you
liked it in middle school.”
“The only reason I joined was so I could work on my public
speaking. For my stutter.” He stops. “Wait. Did you say you
went there for me? To see how I turned out?”
“Yeah. I … I always wondered.”
John’s not saying anything; he’s just staring at me. He sets
down his glass abruptly. Then he picks it back up and puts a
coaster under it. “You haven’t said what happened with you
and Kavinsky that night after I left.”
“Oh. We broke up.”
“You broke up,” he repeats, his face blank.
That’s when I notice Kitty lurking in the doorway like a
little spy. “What do you want, Kitty?”
“Um … is there any red pepper hummus left?” she asks.
“I don’t know—go check.”
John is wide-eyed. “This is your little sister?” To Kitty he
says, “The last time I saw you, you were still a little kid.”
“Yeah, I grew up,” she says, not even a little bit nicely.
I throw her a look. “Be polite to our guest.” Kitty turns on
her heels and runs upstairs. “Sorry about my sister. She’s
really close with Peter and she gets crazy ideas… .”
“Crazy ideas?” John repeats.
I could slap myself. “Yeah, I mean, she thinks that
something’s going on with us. But obviously there isn’t, and
you don’t, like, like me like that, so, yeah, it’s crazy.” Like,
why do I speak? Why did God give me a mouth if I’m just
going to say dumb stuff with it?
It’s so quiet I open my mouth to say more dumb stuff, but
then he says, “Well … it’s not that crazy.”
“Right! I mean, I didn’t mean crazy—” My mouth snaps
shut, and I stare straight ahead.
“Do you remember that time we played spin the bottle in
my basement?”
I nod.
“I was nervous to kiss you, because I’d never kissed a girl
before,” he says, and picks up the glass of sweet tea again. He
takes a swig, but there’s no tea left, just ice. His eyes meet
mine, and he grins. “All the guys gave me such a hard time
afterward for whiffing it.”
“You didn’t whiff it,” I say.
“I think that was around when Trevors old brother told us
he made a girl …” John hesitates, and I nod eagerly so he’ll go
on. “He claimed he gave a girl an orgasm just by kissing her.”
I let out a shrieky laugh and clap my hands to my mouth.
“That’s the biggest lie I ever heard! I never saw him talk to
even one girl. Besides, I don’t think that’s even possible. And
if it was possible, I highly doubt Sean Pike was capable of it.”
John laughs too. “Well, I know it’s a lie now, but at the time
we all believed him.”
“I mean, was it a great kiss? No, it wasn’t.” John winces
and I quickly continue. “But it wasn’t an altogether terrible
one. I swear. And listen, it’s not like I’m an expert on kissing
anyway. Who am I to say?”
“Okay okay, you can stop trying to make me feel better.”
He sets down his glass. “I’ve gotten much better at it. That’s
what the girls tell me.”
This conversation has taken a strange and confessional turn,
and I’m nervous but not in a bad way. I like sharing secrets,
being coconspirators. “Oh, so you’ve kissed that many, huh?”
He laughs again. “A respectable number.” He pauses. “I’m
surprised you even remember that day. You were so into
Kavinsky, I don’t think you even noticed who else was there.”
I push him in the shoulder. “I was not ‘so into Kavinsky’!”
“Yes you were. You kept your eyes on that bottle the whole
game, like this.” John picks up the bottle and lasers his eyes at
it. “Waiting for your moment.”
I’m bright red, I know I am. “Oh, be quiet.”
Laughing, he says, “Like a hawk on its prey.”
“Shut up!” Now I’m laughing too. “How do you even
remember that?”
“Because I was doing the same thing,” he says.
“You were staring at Peter too?” I say it like a joke, to
tease, because this is fun. For the first time in days I’m having
fun.
He looks right at me, navy-blue eyes sure and steady, and
my breath catches in my chest. “No. I was looking at you.”
There’s a humming in my ears, and it’s the sound of my
heart beating in triple measure. In memory, everything seems
to happen to music. One of my favorite lines from The Glass
Menagerie. If I close my eyes I can almost hear it, that day in
John Ambrose McClaren’s basement. Years from now, when I
look back on this moment, what music will I hear then?
His eyes hold mine, and I feel a flutter that starts in my
throat and moves across my collarbone and chest. “I like you,
Lara Jean. I liked you then and I like you even more now. I
know you and Kavinsky just broke up, and you’re still sad, but
I just want to make it unequivocally clear.”
“Um okay,” I whisper. His words—they come clearly;
they don’t miss in either direction. Not even a trace of a
stutter. Just—unequivocally clear.
“Okay, then. Let’s win you a wish.” He takes out his phone
and pulls up Google Maps. “I looked up Gen’s address before
I came over here. I think you’re right—we should take our
time, assess the situation. Not go in half-cocked.”
“Mm-hm.” I’m in a sort of dream state; it’s hard to
concentrate. John Ambrose McClaren wants to make it
unequivocally clear.
I snap out of it when Kitty jostles her way back into the
living room, balancing a glass of orange soda, the tub of red
pepper hummus, and a bag of pita chips. She makes her way
over to the couch and plonks down right between us. Holding
out the bag, she asks, “Do you guys want some?”
“Sure,” John says, taking a chip. “Hey, I hear you’re pretty
good at schemes. Is that true?”
Warily she says, “What makes you say that?”
“You’re the one who sent out Lara Jean’s letters, aren’t
you?” Kitty nods. “Then I’d say you’re pretty good at
schemes.”
“I mean, yeah. I guess.”
“Awesome. We need your help.”
Kitty’s ideas are a bit too extreme—like slashing
Genevieve’s tires, or throwing a stink bomb in her house to
smoke her out, but John writes down every one of Kitty’s
suggestions, which does not go unnoticed by Kitty. Very little
does.
46
THE NEXT MORNING, KITTY IS dawdling over her peanut
butter toast, and from behind his newspaper, Daddy says,
“You’re going to miss the bus if you don’t hurry.”
She merely shrugs and takes her time going upstairs to get
her book bag. I’m sure she thinks she can just catch a ride with
me if she misses the bus, but I’m running late too. I overslept
and then I couldn’t find my favorite jeans so I had to settle for
my second favorite.
As I’m rinsing my cereal bowl, I look out the window and
see Kitty’s school bus drive by. “You missed the bus!” I yell
upstairs.
No reply.
I stuff my lunch in my bag and call out, “If you’re coming
with me, you’d better hustle! Bye, Daddy!”
I’m putting on my shoes by the front door when Kitty
shoots right past me and out the door, book bag bouncing
against her shoulder. I follow after her and close the door
behind me. And there, across the street, leaning against his
black Audi, is Peter. He grins broadly at Kitty, and I stand
there just completely blindsided. My first thought is, Is he here
to see me? No, couldn’t be. My second thought is, Could this
be a trap? My eyes dart around, looking for any sign of
Genevieve. There is none, and I feel guilty for thinking he
could ever be that cruel.
Kitty waves madly and runs up to him. “Hi!”
“Ready to go, kid?” he asks her.
“Yup.” She turns back to look at me. “Lara Jean, you can
come with us. I’ll sit in your lap.”
Peter is looking at his phone, and what little hope I had that
maybe he partly came to see me is dashed. “No, that’s okay,” I
say. “There’s only room for two.”
He opens the passenger-side door for her, and Kitty
scrambles in. “Go fast,” she tells him.
He barely spares me a glance before they’re gone. Well. I
suppose that’s that, then.
“What kind of cake are you making me?” Kitty sits on a stool
and watches me. I’m baking the cake tonight so it’s all set for
tomorrow’s party. I’ve got it in my head that Kitty’s slumber
party has to be just the best night ever, partly because the party
is so belated and should therefore be worth the wait, and partly
because ten is a big year in a girl’s life. Kitty may not have a
mom, but she will have a spectacular birthday sleepover if I’ve
got anything to do with it.
“I told you, it’s a surprise.” I dump my premeasured flour
into a mixing bowl. “So how was your day?”
“Good. I got an A-minus on my math quiz.”
“Oh, yay! Anything else cool happen?”
Kitty shrugs her shoulders. “I think Ms. Bertoli accidentally
farted when she was taking attendance. Everybody laughed.”
Baking powder, salt. “Cool, cool. Did, um, Peter drive you
straight to school, or did you stop somewhere along the way?”
“He took me to get donuts.”
I bite my lip. “That’s nice. Did he say anything?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Life.”
Kitty rolls her eyes. “He didn’t say anything about you, if
that’s what you’re wondering about.”
This stings. “I wasn’t wondering about that at all,” I lie.
Kitty and I have the whole sleepover planned down to a T.
Zombie makeovers. Photo booth with props. Nail art.
I chose Kitty’s cake with utmost care. It’s chocolate with
raspberry jam and white chocolate frosting. I’ve made three
different kinds of dips. Sour cream and onion, red pepper
hummus, and cold spinach dip. Crudités. Pigs in a blanket.
Salty caramel popcorn for the movie. Lime sherbet punch, the
kind you pour ginger ale over. I even scrounged up an old
glass punch bowl in the attic, which will also be perfect for the
USO theme party. For breakfast in the morning I’m making
chocolate chip pancakes. I know all of these details are
important to Kitty, too. Already she’s mentioned to me that at
Brielle’s birthday, her mom made strawberry smoothies for
their snack, and who could forget how Alicia Bernard’s mom
made crepes when she’s mentioning it all the time?
Daddy’s banished to his room for the night, which he looks
relieved about—but not before I made him drag down the little
vintage chest of drawers I have in my room. I artfully arrange
my collection of nightgowns and pj’s and footie long
underwear, plus fuzzy slippers. Between Kitty, Margot, and
me, we have a lot of fuzzy slippers.
Everyone changes into pajamas right away, giggling and
screaming and fighting over who gets what.
I am wearing a pale pink peignoir set I got from a thrift
store brand-new with the tags still on. I feel like Doris Day in
The Pajama Game. The only thing I’m missing are furry
slippers with a kitten heel. I tried to convince Kitty that we
should have an old movie night, but she shot that idea down
right away. To be funny, I put my hair in rollers. I offer to put
the girls’ hair in rollers too, but everyone shrieks and says no.
They’re so loud I keep having to say, “Girls, girls!”
Halfway into the mani session I notice that Kitty is hanging
back. I thought she’d be in her element, belle of the birthday
ball, but she’s ill at ease and playing with Jamie.
When all the girls run upstairs to my room to do the mud
packs I’ve prepared, I grab Kitty’s elbow. “Are you having
fun?” I ask. She nods and tries to dart away, but I give her
stern eyes. “Sister swear?”
Kitty hesitates. “Shanae’s gotten really good friends with
Sophie,” she says, her eyes welling up. “Like better friends
than me and her. Did you see how they did matching
manicures? They didn’t ask me if I wanted to do matching
manicures.”
“I don’t think they meant to leave you out,” I say.
She shrugs her bony shoulders.
I put my arm around her, and she just stands there stiffly, so
I push her head down on my shoulder. “It can be tough with
best friendships. You’re both growing and changing, and it’s
hard to grow and change at the same rate.”
Her head pops up, and I push it back down on my shoulder.
“Is that what happened with you and Genevieve?” she asks.
“Honestly, I don’t know what happened with me and
Genevieve. She moved away, and we were still friends, and
then we weren’t.” I realize belatedly that it’s not the most
comforting thing to say to someone who’s feeling left out by
her friends. “But I’m sure that will never happen to you.”
Kitty lets out a defeated little sigh. “Why can’t things just
stay the same as before?”
“Then nothing would ever change and you wouldn’t grow
up; you would have stayed nine forever and never have turned
ten.”
She wipes her nose with the back of her arm. “I might not
mind that.”
“Then you’d never get to drive, or go to college, or buy a
house and adopt a bunch of dogs. I know you want to do all
that stuff. You have an adventurous spirit, and being a kid can
get in the way of that, because you have to get other people’s
permission. When you’re older, you can do what you want and
you won’t have to ask anybody.”
Sighing she says, “Yeah, that’s true.”
I smooth her hair away from her forehead. “Want me to put
on a movie for you guys?”
“A horror one?”
“Sure.”
She’s perking up, going into bargaining mode like the
business lady she is. “It has to be rated R. No kid stuff.”
“Fine, but if you guys get scared, you aren’t sleeping with
me in my room. Last time you guys kept me up all night. And
if any parents call to complain, I’m telling them you guys
snuck the movie on your own.”
“No problem.”
I watch her fly up the stairs. Impossible as she is, I like
Kitty just as she is. I wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed
nine forever. Kitty’s cares are still manageable; they can fit in
the palm of my hand. I like that she still depends on me for
things. Her cares and her needs make me forget my own. I like
that I am needed, that I am beholden to somebody. This
breakup with Peter, it’s not as big as Katherine Song Covey
turning ten. She has sprung up like a weed, without a mother,
just two sisters and a dad. That is no small feat. That’s
something extraordinary.
But ten, wow. Ten isn’t a little girl anymore. It’s right in
between. The thought of her getting older, outgrowing her
toys, her art set … it makes me feel a bit melancholy. Growing
up really is bittersweet.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a pitiful text from Daddy:
Is it safe to come downstairs? I’m so thirsty.
Coast is clear.
Roger that.
47
FOLLOWING GENEVIEVE AROUND IS A strangely familiar
feeling. Nothing little observations come flooding back. It’s a
heady combination of the things I used to know about her and
the things I don’t. She goes through the drive-thru at Wendy’s,
and without even looking, I know what’s in the bag. Small
Frosty, small fries to dip, six-piece chicken nuggets, also to
dip.
John and I follow Genevieve around town for a bit, but we
lose her at a stoplight so we just head over to Belleview.
There’s a USO party planning meeting I have to get to. With
the party so close, we’re all doubling our efforts to have
everything ready in time. Belleview has become my solace,
my safe place throughout all this. In part because Genevieve
doesn’t know about it, so she can’t tag me out, but also
because it’s the one place I won’t run into her and Peter, free
to do whatever they want together now that he’s single again.
It starts snowing at the beginning of our meeting. Everyone
crowds around the windows to look, shaking their heads and
saying, “Snow in April! Can you believe it?” and then we go
back to work on USO decorations. John helps with the banner.
By the time we’re done, there are a few inches of snow on
the ground, and the snow has turned to ice. “Johnny, you can’t
drive in this weather. I absolutely forbid it,” Stormy says.
“Grandma, it’ll be fine,” John says. “I’m a good driver.”
Stormy delivers a stinging smack on his arm. “I told you
never to call me Grandma! Just Stormy. The answer is no. I’m
putting my foot down. The both of you will stay at Belleview
tonight. It’s far too dangerous.” She sends me a stern look.
“Lara Jean, you call your father right now and tell him I won’t
allow you out in this weather.”
“He can come get us,” I suggest.
“And have that poor widower get into a car accident on the
way here? No. I won’t have it. Give me your phone. I’ll call
him myself.”
“But—there’s school tomorrow,” I say.
“Cancelled,” Stormy says with a smile. “They just
announced it on the TV.”
I protest, “I don’t have any of my things! No toothbrush, or
pajamas, or anything!”
She puts her arm around me. “Lie back and let Stormy take
care of everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
So that is how it came to be that John Ambrose McClaren
and I are spending the night together at a retirement home.
A snowstorm in April is a magical thing. Even if it is because
of climate change. A few pink flowers have already sprouted
in the gardens outside Stormy’s living room window, and
snow is shaking down on it hard, the way Kitty shakes
powdered sugar on pancakes—fast and a lot. Soon you can’t
even see the pink of the flowers; it’s all just covered in white.
We’re playing checkers in Stormy’s living room, the big
kind of checkers you can buy at Cracker Barrel. John has
beaten me twice and he keeps asking me if I’m hustling him.
I’m coy about it, but the answer is no, he’s just better than me
at checkers. Stormy serves us piña coladas that she mixes in
her blender with “just a splash of rum to warm us up,” and she
microwaves frozen spanakopita that neither of us touches.
Bing Crosby is playing on her stereo. By nine thirty Stormy is
yawning and saying she’ll need her beauty sleep soon. John
and I exchange a look—it’s still so early, and I don’t know the
last time I went to bed before midnight.
Stormy insists I stay with her and John stay with Mr.
Morales in his spare bedroom. I can tell John isn’t crazy about
this idea, because he asks, “Can’t I just sleep on your floor?”
I’m surprised when Stormy shakes her head. “I hardly think
Lara Jean’s father would appreciate that!”
“I really don’t think my dad would mind, Stormy,” I say. “I
could call him if you want.”
But the answer is a firm and resounding no: John must
bunk with Mr. Morales. For a lady who’s always telling me to
be wild and have adventures and bring the condom, she’s far
more old-fashioned than I thought.
Stormy hands John a face towel and a pair of foam
earplugs. “Mr. Morales snores,” she tells him as she kisses him
good night.
John raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you know?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” She shimmies off into the
kitchen like the grand dame she truly is.
In a low voice John says to me, “You know what? I really,
really wouldn’t.”
I bite the cushiony part of my cheek to keep from laughing.
“Keep your phone on vibrate,” John says before he goes out
the door. “I’ll text you.”
I hear the sound of Stormy snoring and the whispery sound of
icy snowflakes hitting the windowsill. I keep getting twisted
up in Stormy’s sleeping bag, twisted and hot and wishing
Stormy didn’t have the heat turned up so high. Old people are
always complaining about how cold it is at Belleview, how the
heat is “piss-poor,” as Danny in the Azalea building says.
Feels plenty hot to me. Stormy’s peach high-neck satin
nightgown she insisted I wear isn’t helping matters. I’m lying
on my side, playing Candy Crush on my phone, wondering
when John will hurry up and text me.
Wanna play in the snow?
I text back right away:
YES! It’s really hot in here.
Meet me in the hallway in two min?
K.
I stand up so fast in my sleeping bag I nearly trip. I use my
phone to find my coat, my boots. Stormy is snoring away. I
can’t find my scarf, but I don’t want to keep John waiting, so I
run out without it.
He’s already in the hallway waiting for me. His hair is
sticking up in the back, and on that basis alone I think I could
fall in love with him if I let myself. When he sees me, he holds
his arms out and sings, “Do you want to build a snowman?”
and I burst out laughing so hard John says, “Shh, you’re going
to wake up the residents!” which only makes me laugh harder.
“It’s only ten thirty!”
We run down the long carpeted hallway, both of us
laughing as quietly as we can. But the more you try to laugh
quietly, the harder it is to stop. “I can’t stop laughing,” I gasp
as we run through the sliding doors and to the courtyard.
We’re both out of breath; we both stop short.
The ground is blanketed in thick white snow, thick as
sheep’s wool. It’s so beautiful and hushed, my heart almost
hurts with the pleasure of it. I’m so happy in this moment, and
I realize it’s because I haven’t thought of Peter once. I turn to
look at John, and he’s already looking at me with a half smile
on his face. It gives me a nervous flutter in my chest.
I spin around in a circle and sing, “Do you want to build a
snowman?” And then we’re both giggling again.
“You’re going to get us kicked out of here,” he warns.
I grab his hands and make him spin around with me as fast
as I can. “Quit acting like you really belong in a nursing home,
old man!” I yell.
He drops my hands and we both stumble. Then he grabs a
fistful of snow off the ground and starts to pack it into a ball.
“Old man, huh? I’ll show you an old man!”
I dart away from him, slipping and sliding in the snow.
“Don’t you dare, John Ambrose McClaren!”
He chases after me, laughing and breathing hard. He
manages to grab me around the waist and raises his arm like
he’s going to put the snowball down my back, but at the last
second he releases me. His eyes go wide. “Oh my God. Are
you wearing my grandma’s nightgown under your coat?”
Giggling, I say, “Wanna see? It’s really racy.” I start to
unzip my coat. “Wait, turn around first.”
Shaking his head, John says, “This is weird,” but he obeys.
As soon as his back is turned, I snatch a handful of snow, form
it into a ball, and put it in my coat pocket.
“Okay, turn around.”
John turns, and I lob the snowball directly at his head. It
hits him in the eye. “Ouch!” he yelps, wiping it with his coat
sleeve.
I gasp and move toward him. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.
Are you okay—”
John’s already scooping up more snow and lunging toward
me. And so begins our snowball fight. We chase each other
around, and I get in another great hit square in his back. We
call a truce when I nearly slip and fall on my butt. Luckily,
John catches me just in time. He doesn’t let go right away. We
stare at each other for a second, his arm around my waist.
There’s a snowflake on his eyelashes. He says, “If I didn’t
know you were still hung up on Kavinsky, I would kiss you
right now.”
I shiver. Up until Peter, the most romantic thing that ever
happened to me was with John Ambrose McClaren, in the
rain, with the soccer balls. Now this. How strange that I’ve
never even dated John, and he’s in two of my most romantic
moments.
John releases me. “You’re freezing. Let’s go back inside.”
We go to the parlor on Stormy’s floor to sit and thaw out.
There’s only one reading light on, so it’s dim and quiet. All the
residents are in their apartments for the night, it seems. It feels
strange to be here without Stormy and everyone, like being at
school at night. We sit on the fancy French-style couch, and I
take off my boots so my feet can get warm. I wriggle my toes
to get the feeling back.
“Too bad we can’t start a fire,” John says, stretching his
arms and looking at the fireplace.
“Yeah, it’s fake,” I say. “There must be some sort of
nursing-home law about fireplaces, I bet. …” My voice trails
off as I see Stormy, in her silky kimono, tiptoeing out of her
apartment and down the hall. To Mr. Morales’s apartment. Oh
my God.
“What?” John asks, and I slap my hand over his mouth. I
duck down low in my seat and slide all the way off the couch
to the floor. I pull him down next to me. We stay down until I
hear the door click closed. He whispers, “What is it? What did
you see?”
Sitting up, I whisper back, “I don’t know if you want to
know.”
“Dear God. What? Just tell me.”
“I saw Stormy in her red kimono, sneaking into Mr.
Morales’s apartment.”
John chokes. “Oh my God. That’s …”
I give him sympathetic eyes. “I know. Sorry.”
Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch, his legs
stretched out long in front of him. “Wow. This is rich. My
great-grandmother has a way more active sex life than I do.”
I can’t resist asking, “So then I guess, have you not had
sex with that many girls?” Hastily I say, “Sorry, I’m a very
inquisitive person.” I scratch my cheek. “Some might say
nosy. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll answer. I’ve never had sex with anybody.”
“What!” I can’t believe it. How can that be?
“Why are you so shocked?”
“I don’t know, I guess I thought all guys were doing it.”
“Well, I’ve only had one girlfriend, and she was religious,
so we never did it, which was fine. Anyway, trust me, not all
guys are having sex. I’d say the majority aren’t.” John pauses.
“What about you?”
“I’ve never done it either,” I say.
He frowns, confused. “Wait, I thought you and Kavinsky
…”
“No. Why would you think that?” Oh. The video. I
swallow. I thought maybe he was the one person who hadn’t
seen it. “So you’ve seen the hot tub video, huh.”
John hesitates and then, says, “Yeah. I didn’t know it was
you at first, not until after the time capsule party when I
figured out you guys were together. Some guy showed it to me
in homeroom, but I didn’t look at it that closely.”
“We were just kissing,” I say, ducking my head. “I wish
you hadn’t seen it.”
“Why? Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me at all.”
“I guess I liked the thought of you looking at me a certain
kind of way. I feel like people see me differently now, but you
still thought of me as the old Lara Jean. Do you know what I
mean?”
“That is how I see you,” John says. “You’re still the same
to me. I’ll always see you that way, Lara Jean.”
His words, the way he is looking at me—it makes me feel
warm inside, golden, all the way to my frozen toes. I want him
to kiss me. I want to see if it’s different from Peter, if it will
make the hurt recede. Make me forget him, just for a while.
But maybe he senses it—that Peter is somehow here with us,
in my thoughts, that it wouldn’t just be about him and me—
because John doesn’t make a move.
Instead he asks a question. “Why do you always call me by
my full name?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s how I think of you in my
head.”
“Oh, so you’re saying you think about me a lot?”
I laugh. “No, I’m saying that when I think about you, which
isn’t very often, that’s how I think of you. On the first day of
school, I always have to explain to teachers that Lara Jean is
my first name and not just Lara. And then, do you remember
how Mr. Chudney started calling you John Ambrose because
of that? ‘Mr. John Ambrose.’”
In a fake hoity-toity English accent, John says, “Mr. John
Ambrose McClaren the Third, madam.”
I giggle. I’ve never met a third before. “Are you really?”
“Yeah. It’s annoying. My dad’s a junior, so he’s JJ, but my
extended family still calls me Little John.” He grimaces. “I’d
much rather be John Ambrose than Little John. Sounds like a
rapper or that guy from Robin Hood.”
“Your family’s so fancy.” I only ever saw John’s mom
when she was picking him up. She looked younger than the
other mothers, she had John’s same milky skin, and her hair
was longer than the other moms’, straw-colored.
“No. My family isn’t fancy at all. My mom made Jell-O
salad last night for dessert. And, like, my dad only has steak
cooked well-done. We only ever take vacations we can drive
to.”
“I thought your family was kind of well, rich.” I feel
immediate shame for saying “rich.” It’s tacky to talk about
other people’s money.
“My dad’s really cheap. His construction company is pretty
successful, but he prides himself on being a self-made man.
He didn’t go to college; neither did my grandparents. My
sisters were the first in our family.”
“I didn’t know that about you,” I say. All these new things
I’m learning about John Ambrose McClaren!
“Now it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know
about you,” John says.
I laugh. “You already know more than most people. My
love letter made sure of that.”
The next morning, I sneeze as I’m putting on my coat, and
Stormy raises one pencil-drawn eyebrow at me. “Catch a cold
playing in the snow last night with Johnny?”
I squirm. I’d hoped she wouldn’t bring it up. The last thing
I want to do is discuss her midnight rendezvous with Mr.
Morales! We watched Stormy go back to her apartment and
then waited half an hour before John went back to Mr.
Morales’s. Weakly, I say, “Sorry we snuck out. It was so early,
and we couldn’t fall asleep, so we thought we’d play in the
snow.”
Stormy waves a hand. “It’s exactly what I hoped would
happen.” She winks at me. “That’s why I made Johnny stay
with Mr. Morales, of course. What’s the fun in anything if
there aren’t a few roadblocks to spice things up?”
In awe, I say, “You’re so crafty!”
“Thank you, darling.” She’s quite pleased with herself.
“You know, he’d make a great first husband, my Johnny. So,
did you French him, at least?”
My face burns. “No!”
“You can tell me, honey.”
“Stormy, we didn’t kiss, and even if we had, I wouldn’t
discuss it with you.”
Stormy’s nose goes thin and haughty. “Well, isn’t that so
very selfish of you!”
“I have to go, Stormy. My dad’s waiting for me out front.
See you!”
As I hurry out the door, she calls out, “Don’t you worry, I’ll
get it out of Johnny! See you both at the party, Lara Jean!”
When I step outside, the sun is shining bright and much of
the snow has already melted away. It’s almost like last night
was a dream.
48
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE USO party, I call Chris on
speakerphone as I’m rolling a log of shortbread dough in sage
sugar. “Chris, can I borrow your Rosie the Riveter poster?”
“You can have it but what do you want it for?”
“For the 1940s USO party I’m throwing at Belleview
tomorrow—”
“Stop, I’m bored. God, all you ever talk about is
Belleview!”
“It’s my job!”
“Ooh, should I get a job?”
I roll my eyes. Every conversation we have turns back to
Chris and the concerns of Chris. “Hey, speaking of fun jobs for
you, what do you think about being a cigar girl for the party?
You could wear a cute outfit with a little hat.”
“Real cigars?”
“No, chocolate ones. Cigars are bad for old people.”
“Will there be booze?”
I’m about to say yes, but only for the residents, but I think
better of it. “I don’t think so. It could be a dangerous
combination with their medications and their walkers.”
“When is it again?”
“Tomorrow!”
“Oh, sorry. I can’t give up a Friday night for this.
Something better will definitely come up on a Friday. A
Tuesday, maybe. Can you change it to next Tuesday?”
“No! Can you just please bring the poster to school
tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but you have to text me with a reminder.”
“’Kay.” I blow my hair out of my face and start slicing the
cookie roll. I still have to chop carrots and celery for the
crudités and also pipe my meringues. I’m doing red-white-
and-blue-striped meringue kisses, and I’m nervous about the
colors blending together. Oh well. If they do, then people will
just have to live with purple meringue kisses. There are worse
things. Speaking of worse things … “Have you heard anything
from Gen? I’ve been so careful, but it seems like she’s barely
playing.” There’s silence on the other end.
“She’s probably too busy doing sex voodoo on Peter,” I say,
half-hoping Chris will chime in. She’s always the first in line
to rip on Gen.
But she doesn’t. All she says is “I’ve gotta go—my mom’s
bitching at me to take out the dog.”
“Don’t forget the poster!”
49
AFTER SCHOOL KITTY AND I set up camp in the kitchen,
where there’s the best light. I bring down my speakers and
play the Andrews Sisters to get us in the right spirit. Kitty puts
down a towel and lays out all my makeup, bobby pins, hair
spray.
I hold up a packet of individual false eyelashes. “Where’d
you get these from?”
“Brielle stole them from her sister and she gave me a pack.”
“Kitty!”
“She won’t notice. She has tons!”
“You can’t just take people’s stuff.”
“I didn’t take it—Brielle did. Anyway, I can’t give it back
now. Do you want me to put them on you or not?”
I hesitate. “Do you even know how?”
“Yeah, I’ve watched her sister put them on plenty of times.”
Kitty takes the eyelashes out of my hand. “If you don’t want
me to use them on you, fine. I’ll save them for myself.”
“Well all right then. But no more stealing.” I frown.
“Hey, do you guys ever take my stuff?” Come to think of it, I
haven’t seen my cat-ears knit beanie in months.
“Shh, no more talking,” she says.
The hair is what takes the longest. Kitty and I have watched
countless hair tutorials to figure out the logistics of the victory
rolls. There’s a lot of teasing and hair spray and hair rollers
involved. And bobby pins. Lots of bobby pins.
I stare at myself in the mirror. “Don’t you think my hair
looks a little … severe?”
“What do you mean, ‘severe’?”
“It kind of looks like I have a cinnamon bun on top of my
head.”
Kitty thrusts the iPad in my face. “Yeah, so does this girl’s.
That’s the look. It’s got to be authentic. If we water down the
look, it won’t be true to the theme, and nobody will know
what you’re supposed to be.” I’m nodding slowly; she has a
point. “Besides, I’m going over to Ms. Rothschild’s for a
Jamie training session. I don’t have time to start all over
again.”
For my lipstick, we achieve the perfect shade of cherry red
by blending two different reds—one brick and one fire engine
—with a hot pink powder to set it. I look like I kissed a cherry
pie.
I’m blotting my lips when Kitty asks, “Is that pretty boy
John Amber McAndrews picking you up, or are you meeting
him at the nursing home?”
I wave my tissue in her face warningly. “He’s picking me
up, and you’d better be nice. Also he’s not a pretty boy.”
“He’s a pretty boy compared to Peter,” Kitty says.
“Let’s be honest. They’re both pretty. It’s not like Peter has
a tattoo or huge muscles. In fact he’s very vain.” We never
passed a window or a glass door Peter didn’t check himself out
in.
“Well, is John vain?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Hmph.”
“Kitty, stop making this a competition of John versus Peter.
It doesn’t matter who’s prettier.”
Kitty keeps going like she didn’t hear me. “Peter has a
much nicer car. What does Johnny boy drive, a boring SUV?
Who cares about an SUV? All they do is guzzle gas.”
“To be fair, I think it’s a hybrid.”
“You sure like to defend him.”
“He’s my friend!”
“Well, Peters mine,” she says.
Getting dressed is an intricate process, and I enjoy each step.
It’s all about anticipation, hope for the night. Slowly I put on
the seamed stockings so I don’t get a run in them. It takes me
forever to get the seams straight down the backs of my legs.
Then the dress—navy with white sprigs and little holly berries
and floaty cap sleeves. Last the shoes. Clunky red heels with a
bow at the toe and an ankle strap.
Put all together, it goes great, and I have to admit that Kitty
was right about the victory roll on top of my head. Anything
less wouldn’t be enough.
On my way out Daddy makes a big fuss over how great I
look, and he takes about a million photos, which he promptly
texts Margot. She immediately video-chats us so she can see
for herself. “Make sure you get a picture of you and Stormy
together,” Margot says. “I want to see what sexy getup she’s
wearing.”
“It’s actually not that sexy,” I say. “She sewed it herself, off
a 1940s dress pattern.”
“I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring the sexy,” Margot says.
“What’s John McClaren wearing?”
“I have no idea. He says it’s a surprise.”
“Hmm,” she says. It’s a very suggestive hmm, which I
ignore.
Daddy’s taking one last shot of me on the front porch when
Ms. Rothschild comes over. “You look amazing, Lara Jean,”
she says.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Daddy says fondly.
“God, I love the forties,” she says.
“Have you seen the Ken Burns documentary The War?”
Daddy asks her. “If you have any interest in World War Two,
it’s a must-see.”
“You should watch it together,” Kitty pipes up, and Ms.
Rothschild shoots her a warning look.
“Do you have it on DVD?” she asks Daddy. Kitty is aglow
with excitement.
“Sure, you can borrow it anytime,” Daddy says, oblivious
as ever, and Kitty scowls, and then her mouth falls open.
I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible
Mustang driving down our street, top down—with John
McClaren at the wheel.
My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan
dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan belt and hat. His hair is
parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He
grins at me and waves. “Whoa,” I breathe.
“Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside
me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are forgotten; we are all
staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed
him up. He parks the car in front of the house, and all of us
rush up to it.
“Whose car is this?” Kitty demands.
“It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise
to park really far away from any other car, though, so I hope
your shoes are comfortable, Lara Jean—” He breaks off and
looks me up and down. “Wow. You look amazing.” He
gestures at my cinnamon bun. “I mean, your hair looks so
real.”
“It is real!” I touch it gingerly, I’m suddenly feeling self-
conscious about my cinnamon-bun head and red lipstick.
“I know—I mean, it looks authentic.”
“So do you,” I say.
“Can I sit in it?” Kitty butts in, her hand on the passenger-
side door.
“Sure,” John says. He climbs out of the car. “But don’t you
want to get in the drivers seat?”
Kitty nods quickly. Ms. Rothschild gets in too, and Daddy
takes a picture of them together. Kitty poses with one arm
casually draped over the steering wheel.
John and I stand off to the side, and I ask him, “Where did
you ever get that uniform?”
“I ordered it off of eBay.” He frowns. “Am I wearing the
hat right? Do you think it’s too small for my head?”
“No way. I think it looks exactly the way it’s supposed to
look.” I’m touched that he went to the trouble of ordering a
uniform for this. I can’t think of many boys who would do
that. “Stormy is going to flip out when she sees you.”
He studies my face. “What about you? Do you like it?”
I flush. “I do. I think you look … super.”
It turns out that Margot is, as ever, right. Stormy has shortened
the hem on the dress; it’s well above the knee. “I’ve still got
the gams,” she gloats, twirling. “My best feature, from all the
horseback riding I did as a girl.” She’s showing a little
cleavage, too.
A silver-haired man who rode over in the van from
Ferncliff is making appreciative eyes at her, and Stormy is
pretending not to notice, all the while batting her lashes and
preening with one hand on her hip. He must be the handsome
man Stormy mentioned to me.
I take a picture of her at the piano and send it directly to
Margot, who texts back a smiling emoji and two thumbs up.
I’m setting up the American flag centerpiece, watching
John lug a table closer to the center of the room at Stormy’s
direction, when Alicia sidles up beside me, and then we’re
both watching him. “You should date him.”
“Alicia, I told you, I just got out of a relationship,” I
whisper back. I can’t take my eyes off him in that uniform
with that side part.
“Well, get into a new one. Life is short.” For once, Alicia
and Stormy are on the same page.
Stormy is now straightening John’s tie, his little hat. She
even licks her finger and tries to smooth his hair, but he ducks
away. Our eyes meet, and he makes a frantic face like, Help
me.
“Save him,” Alicia says. “I’ll finish the table. My
internment camp display is already done.” She’s set that up by
the doors, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in.
I hurry over to John and Stormy. Stormy beams at me.
“Doesn’t she look like an absolute doll?” She swans off.
With a straight face John says, “Lara Jean, you’re an
absolute doll.”
I giggle and touch the top of my head. “A cinnamon roll–
headed doll.”
People are starting to mill in, even though it isn’t seven yet.
I’ve observed that old people, as a rule, tend to show up early
for things. I still have to set up the music. Stormy says that
when hosting a party, music is absolutely the first order of
business, because it sets the mood the second your guest walks
in. I can feel my nerves starting to pulse. There’s still so much
to do. “I’d better finish setting up.”
“Tell me what you need done,” John says. “I’m your
second-in-command at this shindig. Did people say ‘shindig’
in the forties?”
I laugh. “Probably!” In a rush I say, “Okay, can you set up
my speakers and iPod? They’re in the bag by the refreshments
table. And can you pick up Mrs. Taylor in 5A? I promised her
an escort.”
John gives me a salute and runs off. Tingles go up and
down my spine like soda water. Tonight will be a night to
remember!
We’re an hour and a half in, and Crystal Clemons, a lady from
Stormy’s floor, is leading everyone in a swing-dancing lesson.
Of course Stormy is up front, rock-stepping for all she’s worth.
I’m following along from the refreshments table: one-two,
three-four, five-six. Early on I danced with Mr. Morales, but
only once, because the women were cutting their eyes at me
for taking an eligible, able-bodied man off the circuit. Men are
in short supply at old-age homes, so there aren’t enough male
dance partners, not enough by half. I’ve heard a few of the
women whispering how rude it is for a gentleman not to dance
when there are ladies without partners—and looking pointedly
at poor John.
John is standing at the other end of the table, drinking Coke
and nodding his head to the beat. I’ve been so busy running
around, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk. I lean over the table
and call out, “Having fun?”
He nods. Then, quite suddenly, he bangs his glass down on
the table, so hard the table shakes and I jump. “All right,” he
says. “It’s do or die. D-day.”
“What?”
“Let’s dance,” John says.
Shyly I say, “We don’t have to if you don’t want to, John.”
“No, I want to. I didn’t take swing-dancing lessons from
Stormy for nothing.”
I widen my eyes. “When did you take swing dance lessons
from Stormy?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just dance with me.”
“Well … do you have any war bonds left?” I joke.
John fishes one out of his pants pocket and slaps it on the
refreshments table. Then he grabs my hand and marches me to
the center of the dance floor, like a soldier heading off to the
battlefield. He’s all grim concentration. He signals to Mr.
Morales, who is manning the music because he’s the only one
who can figure out my phone. Glenn Millers “In the Mood”
comes blaring out of the speakers.
John gives me a determined nod. “Let’s do this.”
And then we’re dancing. Rock-step, side, together, side,
repeat. Rock-step, one-two-three, one-two-three. We step on
each others feet about a million times, but he’s swinging me
around—twirl, twirl—and our faces are flushed and we’re
both laughing. When the song is over, he pulls me in and then
throws me back out one last time. Everyone is clapping. Mr.
Morales screams, “To the young ones!”
John picks me up and lifts me into the air like we’re ice
dancers, and the crowd erupts. I’m smiling so hard my face
feels like it could break.
After, John helps me take down all the decorations and pack
everything up. He goes out to the parking lot with the two big
boxes, and I stay behind to say good-bye to everyone and
make sure we have everything. I still feel sort of a high from
the night. The party went so well, and Janette was so pleased.
She came up and squeezed my shoulders and said, “I’m proud
of you, Lara Jean.” And then the dance with John … Thirteen-
year-old me would have died. Sixteen-year-old me is floating
down the nursing-home hallway, and it’s like I’m in a dream.
I’m floating out the front entrance when I see Genevieve
and Peter walking up, her arm linked in his, and it’s like we’re
in a time machine and the past year never happened. We never
happened.
They’re coming closer. Now they are about ten feet away,
and I am frozen to this spot. Is there no way out of this? Out of
this humiliation, and out of losing yet again? I got so caught
up in the USO party and John that I forgot all about the game.
What are my options here? If I turn and run back into the
nursing home, she’ll just wait in the parking lot for me all
night. Just like that, I am a rabbit under her paw again. Just
like that, she wins.
And then it’s too late. They’ve spotted me. Peter drops
Genevieve’s arm.
“What are you doing here?” he asks me. “And what’s with
all the makeup?” He gestures at my eyes, my lips.
My cheeks burn. I ignore the comment about my makeup
and just say, “I work here, remember? I know why you’re
here, Genevieve. Peter, thanks a lot for helping her take me
out. You’re a real stand-up guy.”
“Covey, I didn’t come here to help her tag you out. I didn’t
even know you’d be here. I told you, I don’t give a shit about
this game!” He turns to Genevieve. Accusingly he says, “You
said you needed to pick something up from your grandma’s
friend.”
“I do,” she says. “This is just an amazing coincidence. I
guess I win, huh?”
She’s so smug, so sure of herself and her victory over me.
“You haven’t tagged me yet.” Should I just make a run for it
back inside? Stormy would let me spend the night if I needed
to.
Just then, John’s red Mustang convertible comes roaring up
through the parking lot. “Hey, guys,” he says, and Peters and
Gen’s mouths drop. It’s only then that I think of how strange
we must look together, John in his World War II uniform with
his jaunty little hat, me with my victory roll and my red
lipstick.
Peter eyes him. “What are you doing here?”
Blithely John says, “My great-grandmother lives here.
Stormy. You may have heard of her. She’s a friend of Lara
Jean’s.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t remember,” I say.
Peter frowns at me, and I know he doesn’t. It’s just like him
not to. “What’s with the outfits?” he says, his voice gruff.
“USO party,” John says. “Very exclusive. VIPs only—
sorry, guys.” Then he tips his hat at him, which I can tell
makes Peter mad, which in turn makes me glad.
“What the hell is a USO party?” Peter asks me.
John stretches his arm out onto the passenger seat
luxuriously. “It’s from World War Two.”
“I wasn’t asking you; I was asking her,” Peter snaps. He
looks at me, his eyes hard. “Is this a date? Are you on a date
with him? And who the hell’s car is this?”
Before I can answer, Genevieve makes a move toward me,
which I dodge. I run behind the pillar. “Don’t be such a baby,
Lara Jean,” she says. “Just accept that you lose and I win!”
I peek from behind the pillar, and John is giving me a look
—a look that says, Get in. Quickly I nod. Then he throws open
the passenger door, and I run for it, as fast as I can. I’ve barely
got the door closed before he’s driving off, Peter and Gen in
our dust.
I turn back to look. Peter is staring after us, his mouth open.
He’s jealous, and I’m glad. “Thanks for the save,” I say, still
trying to catch my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest so
hard.
John is looking straight ahead, a broad smile on his face.
“Anytime.”
We stop at a stoplight, and he turns his head and looks at
me, and then we’re looking at each other, laughing like crazy,
and I’m breathless again.
“Did you see the looks on their faces?” John gasps,
dropping his head on the steering wheel.
“It was classic!”
“Like a movie!” He grins at me, jubilant, blue eyes alight.
“Just like a movie,” I agree, leaning my head back against
the seat and opening my eyes wide up at the moon, so wide it
hurts. I’m in a red Mustang convertible sitting next to a boy in
uniform, and the night air feels like cool satin on my skin, and
all the stars are out, and I’m happy. The way John is still
grinning to himself, I know he is too. We got to play make-
believe for the night. Forget Peter and Genevieve. The light
turns green, and I throw my arms in the air. “Go fast, Johnny!”
I shout, and he guns it and I let out a shriek.
We zoom around for a bit, and at the next stoplight he
slows and puts his arm around me, pulling me closer to his
side. “Isn’t this how they did it in the fifties?” he asks, one
hand on the steering wheel and the other around my shoulders.
My heart rate picks back up again. “Well, technically we’re
dressed for the forties—” and then he kisses me. His lips are
warm and firm against mine, and my eyes flutter shut.
When he pulls away just a fraction, he looks down at me
and says, half serious, half not, “Better than the first time?”
I’m dazed. He’s got some of my lipstick on his face now. I
reach up and wipe his mouth. The light turns green; we don’t
move; he’s still looking at me. Someone honks a horn behind
us. “The light’s green.”
He doesn’t make a move; he’s still looking at me. “Answer
first.”
“Better.” John pushes his foot on the gas, and we’re moving
again. I’m still breathless. Into the wind I shout, “One day I
want to see you make a Model UN speech!”
John laughs. “What? Why?”
“I think it would be something to see. I bet you’d be
grand. You know, out of all of us, I think you’ve changed the
most.”
“How?”
“You used to be sort of quiet. In your own head. Now
you’re so confident.”
“I still get nervous, Lara Jean.” John has a cowlick, a little
piece of hair that won’t stay down; it is stubborn. It’s this piece
more than anything else that makes my heart squeeze.
50
AFTER JOHN DROPS ME OFF at home, I run across the
street to pick up Kitty from Ms. Rothschild’s. And she invites
me in for a cup of tea. Kitty is asleep on the couch with the TV
on low in the background. We settle on the other couch with
our cups of Lady Grey, and she asks me how the party went.
Maybe it’s because I’m still on a high from the night, or
maybe it’s the bobby pins so tight on my head that I feel
woozy, or it could be the way her eyes light up with genuine
interest as I begin to talk, but I tell her everything. The dance
with John, how everyone cheered, Peter and Genevieve, even
the kiss.
She starts fanning herself when I tell about the kiss. “When
that boy drove up in that uniform—ooh, girl.” She whistles. “It
made me feel like a dirty old lady, because I knew him when
he was little. But dear God he is handsome!”
I giggle as I pull the bobby pins from the top of my head.
She leans forward and helps me along. My cinnamon bun
unravels, and my scalp tingles with relief. Is this what it’s like
to have a mother? Late-night boy talk over tea?
Ms. Rothschild’s voice gets low and confidential. “Here’s
the thing. My one piece of advice to you. You have to let
yourself be fully present in every moment. Just be awake for
it, do you know what I mean? Go all in and wring every last
drop out of the experience.”
“So do you not have any regrets, then? Because you always
went all in?” I’m thinking of her divorce, how it was the talk
of the neighborhood.
“Oh God, no. I have regrets.” She laughs a husky laugh, the
sexy kind that only smokers or people with colds get to have.
“I don’t know why I’m sitting here trying to give you advice.
I’m a single divorcée and I’m forty. Two. Forty-two. What do I
know about anything? That’s a rhetorical question, by the
way.” She lets out a sigh filled with longing. “I miss cigarettes
so much.”
“Kitty will check your breath,” I warn, and she laughs that
husky laugh again.
“I’m afraid to cross that girl.”
“‘Though she be but little, she is fierce,’” I intone. “You’re
wise to be afraid, Ms. Rothschild.”
“Oh my God, Lara Jean, will you please just call me Trina?
I mean, I know I’m old, but I’m not that old.”
I hesitate. “Okay. Trina … do you like my dad?”
She goes a little red. “Um. Yeah, I think he’s a great guy.”
“To date?”
“Well, he’s not my usual type. And also he hasn’t shown
any particular interest in me, either, so, ha-ha!”
“I’m sure you know Kitty’s been trying to set you two up.
Which, if that’s unwelcome, I can definitely make her stop.” I
correct myself. “I can definitely try to make her stop. But I
think she might be onto something. I think you and my dad
could be good together. He loves to cook, and he likes to build
fires, and he doesn’t mind shopping because he brings a book.
And you, you seem fun, and spontaneous and just really
light.”
She smiles at me. “I’m a mess is what I am.”
“Messiness can be good, especially for someone like my
dad. It’s worth a date, at least, don’t you think? What’s the
harm in just seeing?”
“Dating neighbors is tricky. What if it doesn’t work out and
then we’re stuck living across the street from each other?”
“That’s a tiny inconsequential risk compared to what could
be gained. If it doesn’t work out, you wave politely when you
see each other and then you keep on walking. No big deal.
And I know I’m biased, but my dad is really worth it. He’s the
best.”
“Oh, I know it. I see you girls and I think, God, any man
who could raise those girls is something special. I’ve never
seen a man so devoted to his family. You three are the pearls in
his crown, you know? And that’s how it should be. A girl’s
relationship with her father is the most important male
relationship of her life.”
“What about a girl’s relationship with her mother?”
Ms. Rothschild tilts her head, contemplating. “Yeah, I
would say a girl’s relationship with her mom is the most
important female relationship. Her mom or her sisters. You’re
lucky to have two of them. I know you know this already,
better than most people, but your parents won’t always be
there. If it happens the way it’s supposed to, they’ll go first.
But your sisters are yours for life.”
“Do you have one?”
She nods, a hint of a smile forming on her tanned face. “I
have a big sister. Jeanie. We didn’t get along as well as you
girls do, but as we get older, she looks more and more like our
mom. And so when I’m missing my mom a lot, I go visit
Jeanie and I get to see my mom’s face again.” She wrinkles
her nose. “Does that sound creepy?”
“No. I think it sounds lovely.” I hesitate. “Sometimes
when I hear Margot’s voice—like, she’s downstairs, and she
calls us down to hurry up and get in the car, or she says that
dinners ready—sometimes she sounds so much like my mom,
it tricks me. Just for a second.” Tears spring to my eyes.
Ms. Rothschild has tears in her eyes too. “I don’t think a
girl ever gets over losing her mom. I’m an adult and it’s
completely normal and expected for my mom to be dead, but I
still feel orphaned sometimes.” She smiles at me. “But that’s
just inescapable, right? When you lose someone and it still
hurts, that’s when you know the love was real.”
I wipe my eyes. With Peter and me, was the love real?
Because it does still hurt, it does. But maybe that’s just part of
it. Sniffling, I ask, “So, just to make sure, if my dad asks you
out, you’ll say yes?”
She roars with laughter, then claps her hand over her mouth
when Kitty stirs on the couch. “Now I see where Kitty gets it
from.”
“Trina, you didn’t answer the question.”
“The answer is yes.”
I smile to myself. Yes.
By the time I wash off all my makeup and get into my
pajamas, it’s nearly three in the morning. I’m not tired, though.
What I really want to do is talk to Margot, go over every
single detail of the night. Scotland is five hours ahead, which
means it’s almost eight a.m. over there. She’s an early riser, so
I figure it’s worth a shot.
I catch her as she’s getting ready to go have breakfast. She
sets her computer on her dresser so we can talk as she puts on
sunscreen and mascara and lip balm.
I tell her about the party, about Peter and Genevieve’s
appearance, and most importantly the kiss with John. “Margot,
I think I could be a person who is in love with more than one
person at a time.” I might even be a girl that falls in love
twelve hundred times. I get a sudden picture in my head of
myself as a bee, sipping nectar from a daisy to a rose to a lily.
Each boy sweet in his own way.
“You?” She stops putting her hair in a ponytail and taps her
finger to the screen. “Lara Jean, I think you half-fall in love
with every person you meet. It’s part of your charm. You’re in
love with love.”
This may be true. Perhaps I am in love with love! That
doesn’t seem like such a bad way to be.
51
OUR TOWN’S SPRING FAIR IS tomorrow, and Kitty has
promised the PTA a cake for the cake walk on my behalf. At a
cake walk, music plays while kids walk around a circle of
numbers, like musical chairs. When the music stops, a number
is picked at random, and the kid standing in front of the
corresponding number gets the cake. This was always my
favorite carnival game, of course, because I liked looking at all
of the homemade cakes and also for the sheer luck of it.
Certainly, the kids crowd around the cake table and earmark
the cake they most want and try to walk slowly when they
come upon the number, but beyond that there isn’t much to it.
It’s a game that does not require any skill or know-how: You
literally just walk around a circle to old-timey music. Sure,
you could go to the bakery and pick out the exact cake you
want, but there is a thrill in not being sure what you’ll end up
with.
My cake will be chocolate, because kids and people in
general prefer chocolate to any other flavor. The frosting is
where I’ll get fancy. Possibly salted caramel, or passion fruit,
or maybe a mocha whip. I’ve been toying with the idea of
doing an ombré cake, where the frosting goes from dark to
light. I have a feeling my cake will be in demand.
When I picked up Kitty from Shanae’s house this morning,
I asked her mom what cake she was baking for the cake walk,
because Mrs. Rodgers is vice president of the elementary
school PTA. She heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll be baking
whatever Duncan Hines I can find in my pantry. Either that or
Food Lion.” Then she asked me what I was baking and I told
her, and she said, “I’m voting you Teen Mom of the Year,”
which made me laugh and also further spurred me to bake the
best cake so everyone knows what Kitty’s working with. I
never mentioned this to Daddy or Margot, but in middle
school my English teacher sponsored a mother-daughter tea in
honor of Mothers Day. It was after school, an optional thing,
but I really wanted to go and have the tea sandwiches and
scones she said she was bringing. It was just for mothers and
daughters, though. I suppose I could have asked Grandma to
come—Margot did that a few times for miscellaneous events
—but it wouldn’t have been the same. And I don’t think it’s
the kind of thing that would bother Kitty, but it’s still
something I think about.
The cake walk is in the elementary school’s music room. I’ve
volunteered to be in charge of the walking music, and I’ve
made a playlist with all sugar-related songs. Of course “Sugar,
Sugar” by the Archies, “Sugar Shack,” “Sugar Town,” “I Can’t
Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch).” When I walk into the
music room, Peters mom and another mom are setting up the
cakes. I falter, unsure of what to do.
She says, “Hello, Lara Jean,” but her smile doesn’t quite
reach her eyes, and it gives me a sinking feeling in my
stomach. It’s a relief when she leaves.
There’s a decent crowd all day, with some people playing
more than once for the cake of their dreams. I keep steering
people toward my caramel cake, which is still in rotation.
There’s a German chocolate cake that has people entranced,
which I’m pretty sure is store-bought, but there’s no
accounting for taste. I’ve never been a fan of German
chocolate cake myself, because who wants wet coconut
flakes? Shudder.
Kitty’s been running around with her friends, and she’s
deigned to help me out at the cake walk for an hour when
Peter walks in with his little brother, Owen. “Pour Some Sugar
on Me” is playing. Kitty goes over to say hello, while I busy
myself looking at my phone as she’s showing them the cakes.
I’ve got my head down, pretend-texting, when Peter comes up
beside me.
“Which cake is yours? The coconut one?”
My head snaps up. “I would never buy a grocery-store cake
for this.”
“I was joking, Covey. Yours is the caramel one. I can tell by
the way you frosted it so fancy.” He stops talking and shoves
his hands in his pockets. “So, just so you know, I didn’t go to
the nursing home with Gen to help her tag you out.”
I shrug. “For all I know you’ve already texted her and told
her I’m here, so.”
“I told you, I don’t give a shit about this game. I think it’s
dumb.”
“Well, I don’t. I’m still planning on winning.” I put on the
next song for the cake walk, and all the kids run into position.
“So are you and Genevieve back together?”
He makes a rude sound. “What do you care?”
Again I shrug. “I knew you’d be back with her eventually.”
Peter smarts at this. He turns like he’s going to leave, but
then he stops. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “You
never answered my question about McClaren. Was that a
date?”
“What do you care?”
His nostrils flare. “I fucking care because you were my
girlfriend up until a few weeks ago. I don’t even remember
why we broke up.”
“If you can’t remember, then I don’t know what to say to
you.”
“Just tell the truth. Don’t dick me around.” His voice cracks
on the word “dick.” Any other time we would have laughed
about it. I wish we could now. “What’s going on with you and
McClaren?”
There’s a lump in my throat that’s making it hard to talk all
of a sudden. “Nothing.” Just a kiss. “We’re friends. He’s been
helping me with the game.”
“How convenient. First he’s writing you letters, now he’s
driving you around town and hanging out with you at a
nursing home.”
“You said you didn’t care about the letters.”
“Well, I guess I did.”
“Then maybe you should have said so.” Kitty’s looking
over at us, her forehead pinched. “I don’t walk to talk about
this anymore. I’m here to work.”
Peter eyes me. “Have you kissed him?”
Do I tell the truth? Do I have to? “Yes. Once.”
He blinks. “So you’re telling me I’ve been living the life of
a celibate person ever since we started this stupid game—
before, even—and meanwhile you’re fooling around with
McClaren?”
“We’re broken up, Peter. Meanwhile, when we were
actually together, you were with Genevieve—”
He throws his head back and yells, “I didn’t kiss her!”
Some of the adults turn and look at us.
“You had your arms around her,” I whisper-yell. “You were
holding her!”
“I was comforting her. God! She was crying! I told you!
Did you do it to get back at me?” Peter wants me to say yes.
He wants it to have been about him. But I wasn’t thinking
about Peter when I kissed John. I kissed him because I wanted
to.
“No.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches. “When we broke up, you
said you wanted to be someone’s number one girl, but look at
you. You don’t want to have a number one guy.” He gestures
rudely at the cake table. “You want to have your cake and eat
it too.”
His words sting just the way he intends them to. “I hate that
saying. What does it even mean? Of course I want to have my
cake and eat it too—otherwise what’s the point of having
cake?”
He frowns at me. “That’s not what I’m talking about and
you know it.”
The song finishes then, and the kids come over to claim
their cakes. Kitty and Owen, too. “Let’s go,” Owen says to
Peter. He’s got my caramel cake.
Peter glances down at him and then back at me, his eyes
hard. “I don’t want that one.”
“That’s the one you told me to get!”
“Well, I don’t want it anymore. Put it back and get the
Funfetti down there at the end.”
“You can’t have it,” Kitty tells him. “That’s not how a cake
walk works. You take the cake with the number you were
standing on.”
Peters mouth falls open in shock. “Aw, come on, kid.”
Kitty moves closer to me. “Nope.”
After Peter and his brother leave, I hug Kitty from behind.
She was on my side after all. Song girls stick together.
52
KITTY WANTED TO STAY LONGER at the fair, so it’s just me
driving alone when I spot Genevieve’s car on the road. And
just like that, I’m following her. It’s time to take this girl
down.
She’s still daring. The way she zips through traffic lights, I
almost lose her a few times. I’m not a good enough driver for
this, I want to scream at her.
We finally end up at an office building, one I recognize as
her dad’s. She goes inside, and I park in the same strip mall,
but not too close. I turn off the engine and recline my seat back
so she can’t see me.
Ten minutes pass, and nothing. I don’t even know why
she’d be at her dad’s office on a weekend. Maybe she’s
helping her dad’s secretary? I might be stuck here for a while.
But I will wait forever if need be. I will win, no matter what. I
don’t even care about the prize. I just want the win.
I’m about to doze off when two people come out of the
building—her dad, in a suit and a camel coat, and a girl. I duck
low in my seat. At first I think it’s Genevieve, but this girl is
taller. I squint. I recognize her. She was Margot’s year; I think
they were in Key Club together. Anna Hicks. They walk out to
the parking lot together; he walks her to her car. She’s
fumbling for her keys. He grabs her arm and turns her face to
his. And then they’re kissing. Passionately. Tongue. Hands
everywhere.
Oh my God. She’s Margot’s age. Just eighteen. Genevieve’s
dad is kissing her like she’s a grown woman. He’s a dad. She’s
somebody’s daughter.
I feel sick inside. How could he do this to Genevieve’s
mom? To Gen? Does she know? Is this the hard thing she’s
been going through? If my dad ever did such a thing, I could
never look at him the same way. I don’t know that I could look
at my life the same way. It would be such a betrayal, not just
of our family, but of himself, of who he is as a person.
I don’t want to see any more. I keep my head down until
they both drive out of the parking lot, and I’m about to start
my car too when Genevieve walks out, her arms crossed,
shoulders bent.
Oh dear God. She’s spotted me. Her eyes are narrow; she’s
heading straight for me. I want to drive away, but I can’t. She’s
standing right in front of me, angrily motioning for me to roll
down the window. So I do, but it’s hard to look her in the eyes.
She snaps out, “Did you see?”
Weakly I say, “No. I didn’t see anything …”
Genevieve’s face goes red; she knows I’m lying. For a
second I am terrified she is going to cry, or hit me. I wish she
would just hit me. “Go ahead,” she manages. “Tag me out.
That’s what you came here for.” I shake my head, and then she
grabs my hands off the steering wheel and slaps them on her
collarbone. “There. You win, Lara Jean. Game over.”
And then she runs to her car.
There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called
jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be
severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old
feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose
of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for
them. I think this must be some part of what I feel for
Genevieve. Jung is why I can’t hate her. We’re tied.
And jung is why Peter can’t let her go. They’re tied too. If
my dad did what her dad did, wouldn’t I reach out to the one
person who never turned me away? Who was always there,
who loved me more than anyone? Peter is that person for
Genevieve. How can I begrudge her that?
53
WE’RE IN THE KITCHEN CLEANING up after pancake
breakfast when Daddy says, “I believe another one of the Song
girls has a birthday coming up.” He sings, “You are sixteen,
going on seventeen …” I feel a strong surge of love for him,
my dad who I am so lucky to have.
“What song are you singing?” Kitty interrupts.
I take Kitty’s hands and spin her around the kitchen with
me. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen; I know that I’m naive.
Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet; willingly I believe.”
Daddy throws his dish towel over his shoulder and marches
in place. In a deep voice he baritones, “You need someone
older and wiser telling you what to do …”
“This song is sexist,” Kitty says as I dip her.
“Indeed it is,” Daddy agrees, swatting her with the towel.
“And the boy in question was not, in fact, older and wiser. He
was a Nazi in training.”
Kitty skitters away from both of us. “What are you guys
even talking about?”
“It’s from The Sound of Music,” I say.
“You mean that movie about the nun? Never seen it.”
“How have you seen The Sopranos but not The Sound of
Music?”
Alarmed, Daddy says, “Kitty’s been watching The
Sopranos?”
“Just the commercials,” Kitty quickly says.
I go on singing to myself, spinning in a circle like Liesl at
the gazebo. “I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a
rose… . Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet, and willingly I
believe. . . .”
“Why would you just willingly believe some random
fellows you don’t even know?”
“It’s the song, Kitty, not me! God!” I stop spinning. “Liesl
was kind of a ninny, though. I mean, it was basically her fault
they almost got captured by the Nazis.”
“I would venture to say it was Captain von Trapp’s fault,”
Daddy says. “Rolfe was a kid himself—he was going to let
them go, but then Georg had to antagonize him.” He shakes
his head. “Georg von Trapp, he had quite the ego. Hey, we
should do a Sound of Music night!”
“Sure,” I say.
“This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of
name is Georg?”
We ignore her. Daddy says, “Tonight? I’ll make tacos al
pastor!”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m going over to Belleview.”
“What about you, Kitty?” Daddy asks.
“Sophie’s mom is teaching us how to make latke cakes,”
Kitty says. “Did you know that you put applesauce on top of
them and it’s delicious?”
Daddy’s shoulders slump. “Yes, I did know that. I’m going
to have to start booking you guys a month in advance.”
“Or you could invite Ms. Rothschild over,” Kitty suggests.
“Her weekends are pretty lonely too.”
He gives her a funny look. “I’m sure she has plenty she’d
rather do than watch The Sound of Music with her neighbor.”
Brightly I say, “Don’t forget the tacos al pastor! Those are a
draw, too. And you, of course. You’re a draw.”
“You’re definitely a draw,” Kitty pipes up.
“Guys,” Daddy begins.
“Wait,” I say. “Let me just say one thing. You should be
going on some dates, Daddy.”
“I go on dates!”
“You’ve gone on, like, two dates ever,” I say, and he falls
silent. “Why not ask Ms. Rothschild out? She’s cute, she has a
good job, Kitty loves her. And she lives really close by.”
“See, that’s exactly why I shouldn’t ask her out,” Daddy
says. “You should never date a neighbor or a coworker,
because then you’ll have to keep seeing them if things don’t
work out.”
Kitty asks, “You mean like that quote ‘Don’t shit where you
eat’?” When Daddy frowns, Kitty quickly corrects herself. “I
mean ‘Don’t poop where you eat.’ That’s what you mean,
right, Daddy?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean, but Kitty, I don’t like
you using cuss words.”
Contritely she says, “I’m sorry. But I still think you should
give Ms. Rothschild a chance. If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t
work out.”
“Well, I’d hate to see you get your hopes up,” Daddy says.
“That’s life,” Kitty says. “Things don’t always work out.
Look at Lara Jean and Peter.”
I give her a dirty look. “Gee, thanks a lot.”
“I’m just trying to make a point,” she says. Kitty goes over
to Daddy and puts her arms around his waist. This kid is really
pulling out all the stops. “Just think about it, Daddy. Tacos.
Nuns. Nazis. And Ms. Rothschild.”
He sighs. “I’m sure she has plans.”
“She told me if you asked her out, she’d say yes,” I blurt
out.
Daddy startles. “She did? Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well then maybe I will ask her out. For a coffee, or a
drink. The Sound of Music is a bit long for a first date.”
Kitty and I both whoop and high-five each other.
54
BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST AT THE DINER was a bit of a
tradition with Margot and Josh and me. If my birthday was on
a weekday, we’d wake up early and go before school. I’d order
blueberry pancakes, and Margot would put a candle in them,
and they’d sing.
The day of my seventeenth birthday, Josh sends me a
Happy Bday text, but I get that we won’t be going to the diner.
He has a girlfriend now, and it would be weird, especially with
no Margot. The text is enough.
For breakfast Daddy makes chorizo scrambled eggs, and
Kitty’s made me a big card with pictures of Jamie pasted all
over it. Margot video-chats me to wish me happy birthday and
to tell me my present should be arriving that afternoon or the
next.
At school Chris and Lucas put a candle in the donuts they
got out of the vending machine and they sing me “Happy
Birthday” in the hallway. Chris gives me a new lipstick: red
for when I want to be bad, she says. Peter doesn’t say anything
to me in chemistry class; I doubt he knows it’s my birthday,
and besides, what could I even expect him to say after the way
things ended between us? Still, it’s a nice day, uneventful in its
niceness.
But then, as I’m leaving school, I see John parked out front.
He’s standing in front of his car; he hasn’t seen me yet. In this
bright afternoon light, the sun warms John’s blond head like a
halo, and suddenly I’m struck with the visceral memory of
loving him from afar, studiously, ardently. I so admired his
slender hands, the slope of his cheekbones. Once upon a time I
knew his face by heart. I had him memorized.
My steps quicken. “Hi!” I say, waving. “How are you here
right now? Don’t have you school today?”
“I left early,” he says.
“You? John Ambrose McClaren cut school?”
He laughs. “I brought you something.” John pulls a box out
of his coat pocket and thrusts it at me. “Here.”
I take it from him, it’s heavy and substantial in my palm.
“Should I … should I open it right now?”
“If you want.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I rip off the paper, open the
white box. He’s anxious. I ready a smile on my face so he’ll
know I like it, no matter what it is. Just the fact that he thought
to buy me a present is so … dear.
Nestled in white tissue paper is a snow globe the size of an
orange, with a brass bottom. A boy and girl are ice-skating
inside. She’s wearing a red sweater; she has on earmuffs. She’s
making a figure eight, and he’s admiring her. It’s a moment
caught in amber. One perfect moment, preserved under glass.
Just like that night it snowed in April.
“I love it,” I say, and I do, so much. Only a person who
really knew me could give me this gift. To feel so known, so
understood. It’s such a wonderful feeling, I could cry. It’s
something I’ll keep forever. This moment, and this snow
globe.
I get on my tiptoes and hug him, and he wraps his arms
around me tight and then tighter. “Happy birthday, Lara Jean.”
I’m about to get into his car when I see Peter striding over
to us. “Hold up a second,” he says, a pleasant half smile on his
face.
Warily I say, “Hey.”
“Hey, Kavinsky,” John says.
Peter gives him a nod. “I didn’t get a chance to say happy
birthday, Covey.”
“But—you saw me in chem class … ,” I say.
“Well, you left in a hurry. I have something for you. Open
up your hands.” He takes the snow globe out of my hand and
gives it to John. “Here, can you hold this?”
I look from Peter to John. Now I’m nervous.
“Hold your hands out,” Peter prompts. I look at John one
more time before I obey, and Peter pulls something out of his
pocket and drops it into my palms. My heart locket. “It’s
yours.”
Slowly I say, “I thought you returned the necklace to your
mom’s store.”
“Nope. Wouldn’t look right on another girl.”
I blink. “Peter, I can’t accept this.” I try to give it back, but
he shakes his head; he won’t take it. “Peter, please.”
“No. When I get you back, I’m gonna put that necklace
back around your neck and pin you.” He tries to hold my eyes
with his own. “Like the 1950s. Remember, Lara Jean?”
I open my mouth and then close it. “I don’t think pin means
what you think it means,” I tell him, holding the necklace out
to him. “Please, just take it.”
“Tell me what your wish is,” he urges. “Wish for anything,
and I’ll give it to you, Lara Jean. All you have to do is ask.”
I feel dizzy. All around us, people are exiting the building,
walking to their cars. John is standing beside me, and Peter is
looking at me like we’re the only two people here. Anywhere.
It’s John’s voice that makes me break away. “What are you
doing, Kavinsky?” John says, shaking his head. “This is
pathetic. You treated her like garbage and now you decide you
want her back?”
“Stay out of it, Sundance Kid,” Peter snaps. To me he says
softly, “You promised you wouldn’t break my heart. In the
contract you said you wouldn’t, but you did, Covey.”
I’ve never heard him sound so sincere, so heartfelt. “I’m
sorry,” I say, my voice whisper-thin. “I just can’t.”
I don’t look back at Peter as I get into the car, but his necklace
is still dangling from my fist. At the last second I turn around,
but we’re too far away; I can’t see if Peters still there or not.
My heart is racing. What would I regret losing more? The
reality of Peter or the dream of John? Who can’t I live
without?
I think back to John’s hand on mine. Lying next to him in
the snow. The way his eyes looked even bluer when he
laughed. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to give up
Peter, either. There are so many things to love about them
both. Peters boyish confidence, his sunny outlook on life, the
way he is so kind to Kitty. The way my heart flips over every
time I see his car pull up in front of my house.
We drive in silence for a few minutes, and then, looking
straight ahead, John says, “Did I even have a shot?”
“I could fall in love with you so easily,” I whisper. “I’m
halfway there already.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.
“You’re so perfect in my memory, and you’re perfect now. It’s
like I dreamed you into being. Of all the boys, you’re the one I
would pick.”
“But?”
“But I still love Peter. I can’t help it. He got here first
and he … he just won’t leave.”
He sighs a defeated kind of sigh that hurts my heart.
“Goddamn it, Kavinsky.”
“I’m sorry. I like you, too, John, I really do. I wish I
wish we got to go to that eighth grade formal.”
And then John Ambrose McClaren says one last thing, a
thing that makes my heart swell. “I don’t think it was our time
then. I guess it isn’t now, either.” John looks over at me, his
gaze steady. “But one day maybe it will be.”
55
I’M IN THE GIRLS’ BATHROOM, retying a bow around my
ponytail, when Genevieve walks in. My mouth goes dry. She
freezes, and then she turns on her heel to go inside a stall.
When I say, “You and I are always meeting in the bathroom,”
she doesn’t reply. “Gen … I’m sorry for the other day.”
Genevieve whirls around and advances on me. “I don’t
want your apology.” She grabs my arm. “But if you tell one
single person, I swear to God—”
“I wouldn’t!” I cry out. “I won’t! I would never do that.”
She releases my arm. “Because you feel sorry for me,
right?” Genevieve laughs bitterly. “You’re such a little phony.
Your whole sugary sweet routine makes me sick, you know
that? You’ve got everyone fooled, but I know who you really
are.”
The venom in her voice stuns me. “What did I ever do to
you? Why do you hate me so much?”
“Oh my God. Stop. Quit acting like you don’t know. You
need to own the shit you did to me.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “What I did to you? You’re the one
who put a sexy video of me on the Internet! You don’t get to
change the story because you feel like it. I’m Éponine; you’re
Cosette! Don’t make me out to be the Cosette!”
Her lip curls. “What the fuck are you even talking about?”
Les Mis!”
“I don’t watch musicals.” She turns like she’s going to
leave, and then she stops and says, “I saw you guys that day in
seventh grade. I saw you kiss him.”
She was there?
She sees my surprise; she revels in it. “I left my jacket
down there, and when I went back to get it, I saw the two of
you kissing on the couch. You broke the most basic rule of girl
code, Lara Jean. Somehow in your mind you’ve made me out
to be the villain. But what you should know is I wasn’t being a
bitch just for the sake of being a bitch. You deserved it.”
My head is spinning. “If you knew, why did you keep being
my friend? You didn’t stop being my friend until later.”
Genevieve shrugs. “Because I liked throwing it in your
face. I had him and you didn’t. Believe me, we weren’t friends
anymore from that moment on.”
It’s odd that out of all the things she’s ever said to me, this
hurts the most. “Just so you know, I didn’t kiss him. He kissed
me. I didn’t even think of him that way, not before that kiss.”
Then she says, “The only reason he even kissed you that
day was because I wouldn’t. You were second choice.” She
runs her hand through her hair. “If you had admitted it back
then, I might have forgiven you. Might have. But you never
did.”
I swallow. “I wanted to. But it was my first kiss, and it was
with the wrong guy, and I knew he didn’t like me.”
It all makes sense. Why she went to such lengths to keep
me and Peter apart. Leaning on him, making him prove she
was still his first choice. It’s no excuse for all the things she’s
done, but I see my part in it now. I should’ve told her about the
kiss right away, way back in seventh grade. I knew how much
she liked him.
“I’m sorry, Genevieve. I truly am. If I could take it back, I
would.” Her eyebrow twitches, and I know she’s not unmoved.
Impulsively I say, “We were friends once. Can we—do you
think we can ever be friends again?”
She looks at me with such complete and utter disdain, like
I’m a child who’s asked for the moon. “Grow up, Lara Jean.”
In a lot of ways, I feel like I have.
56
I’M LYING DOWN ON MY back in the tree house, looking out
the window. The moon is carved so thin, it’s a thumbnail
clipping in the sky. Tomorrow, no more tree house. I’ve barely
thought about this place, and now that it’s disappearing, I’m
sad. It’s like all childhood toys, I suppose. It doesn’t become
important until you don’t have it anymore. But it’s more than
just a tree house. It’s good-bye, and it feels like the end of
everything.
As I sit up, I see it, purple string poking out of a floorboard,
sprouting forth like a blade of grass. I tug on the end and it
pulls free. It’s Genevieve’s friendship bracelet, the one I gave
to her.
Believe me, we weren’t friends anymore from that moment
on.
That isn’t true. We still had sleepovers, birthdays; she still
cried to me the time she thought her parents were getting
divorced. She couldn’t have hated me that whole time. I won’t
believe it. This friendship bracelet proves it.
Because it’s what she put in the time capsule, her most
treasured thing, just like it was mine. And then, at the party,
she took it out, she hid it; she didn’t want me to see. But now I
know. I was important to her then too. We were true friends
once. Tears spring to my eyes. Good-bye, Genevieve, good-
bye middle school years, good-bye tree house and everything
that was important to me that one hot summer.
People come in and out of your life. For a time they are
your world; they are everything. And then one day they’re not.
There’s no telling how long you will have them near. A year
ago I could not have imagined that Josh would no longer be a
constant for me. I couldn’t have conceived of how hard it
would be to not see Margot every day, how lost I would feel
without her—or how easily Josh could slip away, without me
even realizing. It’s the good-byes that are hard.
“Covey?” Peters voice calls up to me from outside, down
below in the dark.
I sit up. “I’m here.”
He climbs up the ladder quickly, ducking so his head
doesn’t hit the ceiling. He crawls over to the tree-house wall
opposite from me, so we are sitting on either side. “They’re
bulldozing the tree house tomorrow,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. They’re going to put up a gazebo. You know, like in
The Sound of Music?”
Peter squints one eye at me. “Why did you call me over
here, Lara Jean? I know it wasn’t to talk about The Sound of
Music.”
“I know about Genevieve. Her secret, I mean.”
He leans his back against the tree-house wall, and his head
drops back with a slight thud. “Her dad’s an asshole. He’s
cheated on her mom before. Just never with someone so
young.” He speaks in a rush, like it’s a relief to finally say the
words out loud. “When things got really bad with her parents,
Gen would find ways to hurt herself. I had to be the one to
protect her. That was my job. Sometimes it scared me, but I
liked being, I don’t know needed.” Then he sighs and says,
“I know she can be manipulative—I’ve always known that. In
some ways it was easier for me to default back to what I knew.
I think maybe I was scared.”
My breath catches. “Of what?”
“Of disappointing you.” Peter looks away. “I know sex is a
big deal to you. I didn’t want to mess it up. You’re so
innocent, Lara Jean. And I have all this shit in my past.”
I want to say, I never cared about your past. But that isn’t
true. It’s only then that I realize: Peter wasn’t the one who
needed to get over Genevieve. It was me. All this time with
Peter, I’ve been comparing myself to her, all the ways I don’t
measure up. All the ways our relationship pales next to theirs.
I’m the one who couldn’t let her go. I’m the one who didn’t
give us a chance.
Suddenly he asks, “What do you wish for, Lara Jean? Now
that you’ve won. Congrats, by the way. You did it.”
I feel a rush of emotion in my chest. “I wish that things
could go back to the way they were between us. That you
could be you and I could be me, and we’d have fun with each
other, and it would be a really sweet first romance that I’ll
remember my whole life.” I feel like I’m blushing as I say this
last bit, but I’m glad I did, because it makes Peters eyes go
soft and caramelly at me for just a second, and I have to look
away.
“Don’t talk like it’s doomed already.”
“I don’t mean to. The first isn’t necessarily the last, but it
will always be the first, and that’s special. Firsts are special.”
“You’re not first,” Peter says. “But you’re the most special
to me, because you’re the girl I love, Lara Jean.”
Love. He said “love.” I feel dizzy. I am a girl who is loved,
by a boy, and not just her sisters and father and dog. A boy
with beautiful eyebrows and a sleight of hand. “I’ve been
going crazy without you.” He scrubs the back of his head.
“Can’t we just—”
“You’re saying I drive you crazy too?” I interrupt.
He groans. “I’m saying you drive me more crazy than any
girl I’ve ever met.”
I crawl toward him, and I reach out and trace my finger
along his eyebrow that feels like silk. I say, “In the contract we
said we wouldn’t break each others hearts. What if we do it
again?”
Fiercely he says, “What if we do? If we’re so guarded, it’s
not going to be anything. Let’s do it fucking for real, Lara
Jean. Let’s go all in. No more contract. No more safety net.
You can break my heart. Do whatever you want with it.”
I put my hand to his chest, over his heart. I can feel it
beating. I let my hand fall away. His heart is mine, just mine. I
believe it now. Mine to protect and care for, mine to break.
So much of love is chance. There’s something scary and
wonderful about that. If Kitty had never sent those letters, if I
hadn’t gone to the hot tub that night, it might’ve been him and
Gen. But she did send those letters, and I did go out there. It
could have happened lots of ways. But this is the way it
happened. This is the path we took. This is our story.
I know now that I don’t want to love or be loved in half
measures. I want it all, and to have it all, you have to risk it all.
So I take Peters hand; I put it on my heart. I tell him, “You
have to take good care of this, because it’s yours.”
He looks at me in such a way that I know for sure—he’s
never looked at another girl quite like this.
And then I’m in his arms, and we’re hugging and kissing,
and we’re both shaking, because we both know—this is the
night we become real.
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to
you.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real
you don’t mind being hurt.”
—MARGERY WILLIAMS
Acknowledgments
With most heartfelt thanks to my editor Zareen Jaffery, who I
could not have written this book without. Thanks also to Justin
Chanda, my publisher and dear friend, and Anne Zafian,
Mekisha Telfer, Katy Hershberger, Chrissy Noh, Lucy
Cummins, Lucille Rettino, Christina Pecorale, Rio Cortez,
Michelle Fadlalla Leo, Candace Greene, and Sooji Kim. It’s
been ten years now at S&S and I’m more in love with you now
than ever. Thank you also to the S&S Canada team for your
steadfast support of me and my books.
All my love and admiration to my incredible agent, Emily
van Beek, Molly Jaffa, and the whole Folio team—you are so
very appreciated. Thank you also to Elena Yip, my part-time
gal Friday.
To Siobhan Vivian, my partner in writing, in crime, and all
things. I couldn’t do it without you. Adele Griffin, one of my
most favorite people in all the world—you always find the
pulse of every story. Morgan Matson, here’s to that night in
London!
And finally, to my readers—all of my love, always.
Jenny
About the Author
Photograph © Adam Krause
JENNY HAN is the New York Times bestselling author of The
Summer I Turned Pretty series; Shug; the Burn for Burn
trilogy, cowritten with Siobhan Vivian; and To All the Boys
I’ve Loved Before and P.S. I Still Love You. She is also the
author of the chapter book Clara Lee and The Apple Pie
Dream. A former children’s bookseller, she earned her MFA in
creative writing at the New School. Visit her at
DearJennyHan.com.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/Jenny-Han
Also by Jenny Han
Shug
The Summer I Turned Pretty
It’s Not Summer Without You
We’ll Always Have Summer
To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before
Cowritten with Siobhan Vivian
Burn for Burn
Fire with Fire
Ashes to Ashes
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or
real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are
products of the authors imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or
places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 by Jenny Han
Jacket photograph copyright © 2015 by Douglas Lyle Thompson
Jacket hand-lettering copyright © 2015 by Nancy Howell
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Book design by Lucy Ruth Cummins
The text for this book is set in Bembo Std.
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4424-2673-3
ISBN 978-1-4424-2675-7 (eBook)
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Dear Peter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgments
About the Author